Terminal closed. I sigh, capsize with the weight,
shoulder my bag and turn. Flat cola. We crush,
breathless at the airport bar. Beer-slopped, he plucks
my last cigarette and steps away, belly-laughing,
arms crossed. Two Welshmen, blowing monoxide ribbons,
translating wine into talk, wheezed powder-blue
but I do not care for football, swallow bitter tea.
Crush the cup in my fist. A woman stares, turning
her painted cheek in smeared German. The drinkers roar
and clap, lager-splutter over announcements, drowning
impatient bells; shoals of faces, gasping like goldfish,
Loud as planes, losing half-time.