20160102 (airportica-1)

Very like my taxi, except imagine it in the middle of the night with only house Christmas lights to see by.

Red numbers on the clock
 
Glowed 3:38. I had 22 more

Minutes to sleep, but since I

Knew I was already awake

I decided to rise, get dressed,

Pack the last items, possibly

Keurig a final Donuts Decaf,

Wait for the taxi to Sea-Tac.

Good I got up since the alarm

Was misset for 4:00 AM but

The clock had read 4:00 PM.

As I opened the front door to

Check for Boris the Bulgarian,

Who preferred to approach the

House with his headlights off

So as not to wake anyone,

Cosette snaked through my

Ankles, tore off barking for parts

Unknown. Dressed, I ambled

Forth in the hard dark of 

Golden Maples Court, NW, 

Lit only by Christmas lights,

Whispering, “Cosette, Cosette,

Come back here, you dirty

Dog.” At the base of the drive

I saw Boris’s Mafia-black Ford

Crown Vic four-door sedan.

He shut its lights off half a

Block away, crept toward 

The house, Cosette’s yips dwindling

In the forest. Andy came out, 

Closing the front door behind him—

A crucial mistake—helped call after 

The pup. Luckily for me she 

Returned from the brush to alert

Us to Boris’s intrusion. Andy quickly

Snatched her up. We went back

To the front door to fetch my

Luggage from inside, discovered

The latch release, which had 

Been failing for weeks, chose

This precise moment finally

To break altogether. Andy

Fortunately had carried his

Phone and rang the house 

Phone so Majida would get

Up to open the back door.

He despaired, she rarely

Left the girls’ room to answer

The phone in the night but

Did this time. Mind you this

Whole adventure occurs in

The space of about a minute.

For what should have been 

A quiet getaway with minimal

Disturbance turns into Thurber’s

“The Night the Bed Fell,” yipping 

Dog, calls into the woods,

Cursing a brass door latch,

Calls to Mama for help, three

Sleepy young ladies waken

Wondering, “What’s all this 

Fuss?” I grabbed my luggage,

Gave Majida one last hug, 

Tickled Cosette’s head, told

Andy “sorry” about fifty times.

Boris threw my tiny bag in the

Trunk large enough to hold

Four Jimmy Hoffas. As we

Backed down the drive in 

The dark my breathing slowed.

I concluded this was trouble 

Enough for one day. The flight

Home would be smooth

As a baby’s butt.

c. J.S.Manista, 2016