Nick Flynn
Boston / United States
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If This is Your Final Destination

They say you are made of clouds, they say you
are made of feathers, they say you are everywhere
or nowhere—we know you are both. Our flight
is delayed, this airport another nowhere. If this
is your final destination, the air murmurs, if
a stranger or anyone you do not know well offers you
anything ... but how well & what's he offering &
is this our final destination? At the hotel a man
hands us the key to room three one three—home
for a week or so. On the lobby tv a woman once
apparently enormous holds her old jeans up to her
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Wednesday, April 6, 2016
Topic(s) of this poem: destination

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5/12/2021 3:57:52 AM #