More Than A Feeling

Improbable Canadian rocker (he may be from Flint or Inkster)
working gate 49 in Delta's terminal, blows cereal and Merit Lights
and half a bottle of warm Pepsi at me as I ask about my Austin flight.

Blonde pageboy/mullet has been swung in love. We've no doubt
spilled beer on each other's shoes in the elbow-close confines of good
smoking bars, drawn heroic inspiration from the same jukeboxes

been staggeringly charming for half-my-size women who didn't deserve it.
I catch that his name is Marc, and guess that it kills him each morning to tuck
in that triple ex el white uniform shirt, belt on navy slacks against the heavy

push of Molson-made guts and go to fucking suck dick at DTW all day.
Long deep drinks of coffee, in to-go mugs with busted tops, are shared
luxury, and briefly humane. Marc's gate desk is six inches too short

for him. My chair is hard-backed and busted and we both could stand
to get drunk.