Logan International
by Mary Oliver
In the city called Wait,
also known as the airport,
you might think about your life---
there is not much else to do.
For one thing,
there is too much luggage,
and you're truly lugging it---
you and, it seems, everyone.
What is it, that you need so badly?
Think about this.
Earlier, in another city,
you're on the tarmac, a lost hour.
You're going to miss your connection, and you know it,
and you do.
You're headed for five hours of nothing.
And how long can you think about your own life?
What I did, to save myself,
was to look for children, the very young ones
who couldn't even know where they were going, or why.
Some of them were fussing, of course.
Many of them were beautifully Hispanic.
The storm was still busy outside, and snow falling
anywhere, any time, is a wonder.
But even more wonderful, and maybe the only thing
to put your own life in proportion,
were the babies, the little ones, hot and tired,
but still
gurgling, chuckling, as they looked---
wherever they were going, or not yet going,
in their weary parents' arms (no!
their lucky parents' arms)---
upon this broken world.
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