The Monkey Robot Goes To The Airport

The Monkey Robot waits in the airport terminal.

The seats are soft. The seats are soft vinyl. The seats are blue.

Outside the sun had moved to light another part of the world.

Outside the snow falls upon slush, and her plane circles.

The plane circles, because the airport has been closed.

The aeroplane circles in the falling snow, and The MOnkey Robot waits.

The Monkey Robot waits and the snow falls upon the slush, and freezes.

No one tells the Monkey Robot that the airport is now closed, but The Monkey Robot understands that there are unexpected delays, and holding patterns.

The Monkey Robot knows that there lives a verb called redirected.

The Monkey Robot tries to mouth the word.

The Monkey Robot tries to make up a song using the word.

The word is cumbersome to the mouth,

and

The Monkey Robot would rather make the sound of delay, than speak the word from Monkey Robot lips.

The Monkey Robot says: Come on Down. Come on down, come, come, come on down.

The Monkey Robot says softly: Delay.

The Monkey Robot stands from the seat of blue vinyl.

The Monkey Robot walks toward the crowd.

The Monkey Robot walks with the crowd.

The Monkey Robot walks to her shade of blue

that is lighter than The Monkey Robot remembered.

As the crowd waits for the carousel to spill luggage, luggage that leaks the cold air of 39,000 feet on to their shoes,

She does not smile or make clever jelly bean combinations.

The Monkey Robot takes the right hand

of the girl who's blue of the eye is lighter

than The Monkey Robot remembered.

The Monkey Robot's hand is neither taken,

nor is it released.

Inside her hand

is the word maybe,

and

outside the snow falls upon slush, and her plane still circles.

The Monkey Robot sings softly a pre-recorded song to The Monkey Robot.

The Monkey Robot Sings: Come on Down. Come on down, come, come, come on down.


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Disclaimer

I never could finish the MRL story. I didn't want to write about The Man from Senegal. I did want to write that he goes home to have dinner and chokes on a chicken bone. A bone that had been attached to a thigh that was seasoned just right with white pepper and lemon grass. I wanted to write about the directions that his legs jerked in and how that long tall body careened as he lurched out the doorway of his house. I so desired to find the correct words to describe the blue of suffocation that would bloom under his dark skin. I wanted to write about the people who pass him by, as he plucks with such long fingers at the the bone caught in his throat. How they are my own personal heros, looking away to check the time or what it was lodged under their fingernails, as he tumbled to the ground. I wanted to write about the dust that clings to the front and backside of that beautiful shirt of his, as he turns over in the street.

In the end I was not that person and that was not how the story ended.

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