It is a particular flavor of cruelty,
To have traveled so far and so often
Yet to so rarely have the company of a friend.
Not at the destination, no,
But in that singular transitoriness of transit itself--
--no matter who awaits you,
You carry these suitcases alone.
Perhaps it is that travel brings out the worst in us
That lends the longing for a friendly face
A particular sort of plaintiveness
In the harsh light of the bus station
And the dim, abandoned airport.
Surely, a bond forged
In the fires of logistics and small hours and obstinate luggage
Should be nigh unbreakable?
Or perhaps it's the fact of this fragile, delicate moment
In which your roots are briefly bewildered by
Air and light and sound
In the suspension between one patch of earth and the next.
Every journey has a destination,
But more importantly, every destination has a reason--
--and in our lives, it has so rarely been a pleasant one.
We seek solace, then, and solidarity,
An assurance that in this alien soil,
We are not trapped in this flowerpot alone.
It is a particular flavor of cruelty
That in order to rendezvous at long last,
We must each travel alone.