Fred’s dad collapsed at the terminal
Waiting to fly to his old boss’s funeral
Snow and viruses scrapped the flight
A heart attack cancelled the father
Others believed it was the airport food
A reheated pizza appearing archeologic
Culled from deep frozen caves
I heard a simpler story:
Dad clutched his chest, coughed and cried out
A flight attendant dropped to the floor
CPR refreshed the week before
Exhausted and sweating she kept on pumping
But no defibrillator hung on the wall
Vanished to maintenance
The new one arrived rather late
Buzzed, lit up, jerked and died
Just a bit before Fred’s dad
I visited the airport that Saturday
The glassed-in lounge where he rested
No one would touch either body or pizza
For a second I saw his soul creep out
Green, short, blinking
Hovering above the empty seats
Still looking for its ride
I really wanted to help
But I can’t do that kind of CPR