On a parking lot staircase, two
women, forced
to walk down from level seven -
“ALL the elevators
out of service, ALL at the same
time, ALL on this day?” -
stopped to rearrange their bags and
purses and coats
and catch their breath, cursing the
heels and pencil skirts
and silk they chose for traveling,
fashion over comfort, and now
they longed for something
comfortable, comforting even,
a stiff drink and running shoes as
they were running late,
and the airport, three levels down
and a bridge across to the terminal,
was expansive, miles to their gate
and a fast dash, heels clacking,
to the stale air of their flight,
sardined in with other travelers flying,
cramped and sweaty, screaming
babies wailing around them;
oh, that they were booked through
to Hawaii or Florida,
the Riviera, a week in Paris,
anywhere but the business trip
they were expected at, reservations
at the Holiday Inn,
long days and nights in the heat of
the Midwest, where fashion
and comfort were one and the same and nobody cared.
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