A breeze elbows through the crowd of
just-arrivals shuffling into SUVs
and great-aunt kisses.

Rag-doll tired on a bench, my fingers fondle
the strange currency in my wool coat
pocket. They slip against Washington’s worn face, sweaty.
December 23. My top buttons unbuttoned, for breathing.

A shuttle bus picks up the wind and
a few suited men, all determined with their leather laptop cases.
The air is still and ripe with passing cars.

There’s a strip of pay phones inside.
These coins feel like buttons, thin wafers
for biting.

I lean against my suitcase handle
and check the time. Nine hours ahead of local
but still, my family: an hour late.