Denver International Airport
Share Article mid-day is the least busy time
frisked down by guys at security - they may have been from Ghana or Somalia or Ethiopia
but I suspect Congo or Zaire as their dialect was distinct
they are young and laughing at the never ending task
waving detector wands over people
and the one waving me is young & angry & exasperated
at having to do anything so far removed from his
land, culture, family, his brothers and sisters carrying water
on their heads in cracked plastic pails from deep distant wells
drying in the heat of perpetual summer’s drought
his tie is askew and his white shirt
against his thin black neck
is frayed and his blue blazer looks severely uncomfortable on his frame
and the Asian security woman
says the woman screening bags
doesn’t know
what a harmonica is so I pull it out in the key of D
ask if she would like me to play her something
she says yes so I play a few blues riffs on automatic pilot
she laughs as passengers flow around
mothers manage baby carriages - three tired tiered birthday cakes with burning candles
their long lonely joyful responsibilities
the music stops
I bag the harmonica and take the escalator down
to the train watching Hispanic woman mop the floor as
women in furs and designer jewelry wait impatiently
for the train to Concourse ABC...
the train zooms through tunnels like amusement park rides
with silver spinning windmills in cement walls
whirling wind tunnels
people get off and on
a White woman with her Black husband holds her child
his black curly hair all ringed around small ears
husband looks bored and she is not sure
in her heart
if she made the right decision
they are flying east to see her folks
he never smiles and they share no words
