Crying Man

At O’Hare, after a first jump west to California,
I thought my father was dying, as I waited  

for the connecting flight.  Being hungry
I ate pizza with the people eating pizza.   

Feeling uninformed, I bought newspapers,
opened magazines at a bookshop wall.   

Near my gate, I pretended not to watch
a dozen others waiting, as they pretended  

not to watch me. But finally, in a hectic airport
restroom, I heard the crying man in his stall.  

Oh God, he cried, behind a stained steel door.  
He didn’t sound old. And in his privacy, not shy.  

Oh Dear God, rang harshly in the close tiled room. 
I stood alongside others, a simple traveler

at a public urinal.  Behind me the restless waited
their turns. Oh dear life came the third cry.   

I shook myself, zipped, found a vacant sink for washing. 
Spurting water dwindled to a trickle on my hands.  

I lathered and rinsed as I’d been taught. Grabbed
for paper towel. Did not linger at the mirror.