Airport Inspiration?

I always tell people that I hate airports. They give me a headache. And everyone is breathing the same air and eating far too much "food" from McDonalds and I always end up running over the toes of some innocent passerby with my overstuffed suitcase. Furthermore, for some inexplicable reason, my stomach always ties itself into knots at those security check points, as if somehow I'll be mistaken for one of the many, many female, college-age, redheaded criminals roaming airports across the country and be hauled away in handcuffs, shamefaced, screaming that they've got the wrong girl. However, I may have to eat my words. Airports are quickly evolving into wells of inspiration for my various scribblings. Here's a taste of what filled my notebook's pages minutes before take-off.

dot dot dot
we worried for You're s.a.n.i.t.y.
when Michael Bublé and Metallica
wore matching sailor suits. we warned You.
failed interventions toed the line
between crafted clichés and comprehensible,
misguided attempts to paste bits and pieces
of the Pyramids back together.
You know they were stolen, right?
the pharaohs were pissed — drunk on
the melodies of doorbells and
bits and pieces of clichés crafted at a Metallica concert.
brave the mosh pit.
You may catch a glimpse of
sarcophagi gleaming in torchlight.
don't lift the lid, for the love of
g.o.d.!
those sailor suits have been preserved for centuries.
"Do Not Disturb."
the doorbell
won't work now,
not now that Michael Bublé's bubble burst.
can You blame us for screaming into
microphones? maybe the bits and pieces of clichés You swept
into neat little piles after footfalls die down
torch-lit corridors will
shake the Pyramids.
at the very least, ring a doorbell.

"d.o. n.o.t. d.i.s.t.u.r.b."

Miss
It is Christmas time and she says my name
because she has to. It is part of her job.
Move the line along, address each passenger
by first name.
All that training
just to utter a name. Simple.
Her turtleneck is tan,
her glasses eat her face.
My name,
exotic,
lush,
on her lips. Half-joking.
I suppose half-joking simplicity is necessary after thousands of days
in the Mecca of transitions,
scanning tickets to destinations not her own.
What is there to say but,
"Safe flight, Miss Miranda"?
The moment of contact. The moment of
names.
All that training
for a moment shared through thick-rimmed glasses
at Christmas time.

That Jitterbug Jive We Do
Waiting for Alaskan wings after
the strangest of mid-morning goodbyes,
the sort that loop a noose around throats
and, snakelike, squeeze the syllables until
they trickle through half-parted lips,
all nonchalance and fingers too afraid
to reach, to trace the lines of faces
and possibilities.
It's silly, playing hard-to-get.
They both know it. But
are they playing the game?

Or are they just hard to get?