Gate 19
Someone is peeling off a hoodie
and for a moment there are two of them—
the one underneath, surprised by cool air,
and the one still tangled in the fabric,
all elbows and static.
The name on the intercom could be anyone's.
It travels the terminal like a bird
that can't find the window it came in through.
I have been seventeen degrees
and eighty-four percent of something
for longer than I can account for.
The gate number is a fact
I keep checking
the way you touch your pocket
for a phone you're already holding.
Somewhere between Hamilton and here
there is a version of me
who already left.
He is not overheated.
He does not answer
to anything.