GROUNDED Poem by Joke van Leeuwen

When you can't get airborne at an airport
sagging in chairs that aren't quite right
in an unscheduled present (and already
been online to learn to say hello
and already seen just where we're not)
and everything is tax-free and gleaming
and no one says why it's not working
the way that it's not working
and it's all far too late
and here's us thinking we thought
it was all arranged when we left home
with windscreen wipers waving goodbye
(the use-by dates in our larder all expired)
our bodies smell less pleasantly
of bodies, ours, and nothing
in our bags with which to make a fist.

Some curses do go up to high heaven.
And someone says so now you're here
with all your travel chattels, shall I tell you
what's to keep from what's left over?
And all about the location that hasn't
been located? No? Well. OK, then.