by Carolyn Creed
I haven't been banished
To a volcanic island off Iceland,
But I may as well have been--
This airport waiting lounge
With its dish-rattle Muzak
Its whiz-game whir
Shuts me off from warm contact
Just about as finally
As if I'd been overthrown by mutineers,
Instead of fogged in.
And oh, no! I've just noticed the color
Of this bank of seats
That the next several hours
Will rest their rears on:
MAROON.