I see certain faces
and think at once of long slogs
dragging broken-wheeled luggage
through vast airports.

I hear certain voices
and think of bad air in tight cabins,
drooling men snoring
on each of my middle seat shoulders.

Tonight feels like a routine room
in a routine hotel. I’m routinely eating
something routine, coating it in routine ketchup
from a routine little bottle.

I’ll write an ecstatic letter and read it to you 
when I get home, words packed 
with the same joy a lost bag feels
upon arriving at last where it belongs.