airport poem

Ok. Help, please. My writing class is asking me to, of all things, write, and I haven't done it in so long that I could use some input on this draft--yes, DRAFT, meaning work in progress--(we are not allowed, in the class, to apologize for a poem being "so bad" before we read it, but nevertheless) so anyway my chosen theme is "airports" because I've seen too damn many of them in the past 2.5 years and this is the beginning of the first of what will become three pieces centered around chosen theme.

So have at.

Orange Alert

“The FBI is warning police nationwide to be alert for people carrying almanacs, cautioning that the popular reference books covering everything from abbreviations to weather trends could be used for terrorist planning.” –Associated Press, 12-29-03

“FBI Warns Officials To Look for People Wearing Bulky Jackets on Warm Days; Smell of Chemicals; Trailing Wires from Jackets; Bombers May Disguise Selves As Pregnant Women” -FBI bullitan, May 20 2004

The risk of terrorism today is orange,
elevated, with a 20% chance of rain
as I fly out of Ronald Regan Washington National Airport
to George Bush Intercontinental Airport
thinking
there are too many presidents involved in my trip and
I wonder if they flew coach, you know,
before Airforce One and all and
did they have to remove their shoes, too?
But I do it—walk shoeless through the metal gate
hoping not to beep,
hoping the woman behind the belt won’t think
my blowdryer is a gun or that
my cell phone charger holds explosives
hoping I removed my teacher scissors this time.

By the time I reach my gate
(gateway to what? to air? a window?)
my driver’s license has been checked three times
so I’m pretty sure I’m me
but not entirely convinced
I’m not a threat to society—nor them, for that matter,
that family with the crying child or
the businessman with a suit and a cell phone
typing away at his laptop
(perhaps documenting suspicious looking activity)
so I buy a Starbucks grande mocha latte, skim,
and open my novel and read, trying
not to look suspicious to anyone,

after all—the papers tell me to beware
of pregnant women and
people carrying almanacs
(no advice on dictionaries)
and and this is my favorite:
unpatriotic dress and speech.

So I keep my bag close by, stay alert, and
yes I ask God with what little sway I have to please
bless this country, this airport,
that child over there, cell phone man, my parents
who drop me off every time, shipping me back
to Houston, Texas, please
bless the Starbucks employee and Mister Yann Martel
who wrote my book
(even though I think he’s Canadian)
and help us all, shoeless, vulnerable,
to look past red white blue orange
alerts,
to see only news-weary travelers
flying to cities we just left,
children playing Mad Libs, flight attendants
with tight buns and squeaky shoes
trotting briskly across the terminal
and outside
the tail lights of planes winking at each other,
fireflies flirting in the night.