Poetry by Nora Rawn

LHR to JFK

It will feel good to step into the 

free air of New York City, a young 

woman says, her tall companion trailing

alongside with his suitcase—hard

to tell how serious they are, 

glamorous in their youth, untroubled,

returned from London where 

petrol is up 7 to 15p, depending 

on the station, where CNN London

shows bombings of fuel depots

on one split screen, a sodomized

Palestinian prisoner on another.

Will flights be canceled? Will 

prices rise beyond the 

far horizon? The stewardess

hands out landing sweets 

down the aisle, her bowl

proffered row by row—maybe, 

one last memory of the world 

before it falls. Visual ID at the kiosk,

facial recognition complete,

no chat with customs. Past

the cab line, cloudy sky

and cold, an ICE van sits 

and waits. The taxi driver 

takes your address, and fortunate, 

you leave the worries of others 

for another day. You find 

your own worries. You are

in the free air of New York City,

the potholes being fixed, 

something festering beneath.