The Third Airport

The third airport is where the language goes.Not the first — the first is only leaving,and anybody can perform a leaving well.The second is arrival, which is theatre:the held-up sign, the crying, the good coat.The third is neither. Three in the morning,a floor the colour of a waiting roomin every country that has ever had one,a man asleep across four plastic seatswith his shoes still on, because he has learned that much.I have been him. I have been the sign as well.What nobody tells you about the middleis that the middle is the part that lasts.An hour in the country you have left.An hour in the one you say you want.The rest of it is spent between the gates,learning the only grammar that transit has:that soon is a place, and you are standing in it.