Denver Layover Poem for Monica JR Llewellyn

Here in the food court of the Denver Airport, 

I huddle at a tiny table no bigger than my tray,

listening to the airport staff annihilate the names 
of foreigners over the intercom.

Every few minutes, I hear them announce

“Monica JR Llewellyn, please pick up the white courtesy phone.”

I wonder what the chances of Monica JR Llewellyn

ever reading this poem are. Infinitesimally small.

I dip my chicken tenders in their little tub of sauce 
and methodically munch. This is just like hanging out 
at the mall, only with Tornado Shelter signs.

To my right, two lithe, pale women twitter in some eastern European tongue.

The only English words I can make out are “American Dream.”

You can't make this stuff up. Well, you shouldn't. To my left 
sits a pudgy black woman in a tight-fitting suit 
with shoulder pads you could launch a small aircraft from. 
She slurps lo mein noodles that strip the burgundy paint from her lips.

None of these women, apparently, are Monica JR Llewellyn,

or if they are, they are discourteously ignoring the requests 

to pick up that white goddamn telephone. 
Maybe Monica is off having sex somewhere...this is what I always 
think about during layovers. What better weapon 
to kill a couple of helpless hours

than a tryst in an empty conference room, or  make-out session

with a stranger in a deserted lounge somewhere?

What better way to fight, or at least make use of, the crushing anonymity

of being a traveler? You've already been reduced to a cypher,

herded through lines like cattle, x-rayed and perhaps even patted down

for hidden weapons, that magic wand run up and down your body,

waved across your crotch. The foreplay's already out of the way! 

Prostitutes could make a bundle here, perhaps renting out storefronts

like the newsstands and duty free shops. The airport could demand

a percentage of the profits, taking advantage of the abundance

of bored businessmen looking to make the most of their down time.
You can only do so many crosswords, only read so many trashy paperbacks.
And what man wouldn't exchange his laptop for a lap dance?

Flights delayed by inclement weather would no longer be a bother, but a boon.
Hell, I would love to tear that big woman's shoulder pads off,
or show those skinny Europeans a real American Dream.
I hear it again: “Monica JR Llewellyn, 
please pick up the white courtesy phone.”

She's out there somewhere, that little vixen, 
or maybe not: maybe her cab got in an accident 
on the way to the terminal. Maybe she's having second thoughts
about the plastic explosives smuggled in the soles of her pumps.
Maybe she had a heart attack and is slumped 
in a ladies room stall just around the corner 

of the same fast food place where I bought this fried chicken which, 
sadly, I have finally finished, still having two dull, sexless hours to slog through 
until my plane, long delayed, finally begins the boarding process.

I hope she makes her flight.