There I am

standing

at the check-in counter

alone

tears running down

my distraught

sun-burnt

face.

–

There she is standing tall

at five feet 2 inches

reminding me

with her unsympathetic smile

that my overpriced

return ticket

was scheduled

not for today

in

two short hours

but

thirty one days

away from today

seven hundred and forty four hours

to be exact.

–

There she is pulling out a scrap of paper

torn around the edges

she scribbles

a number

and directs me

to the end of the hall

A lonely phone

sits

bathed in salt

from the mistaken

travelers

who have come before.

–

There I am pushing the numbers

from the paper

hoping to buy

one

more

return

plane journey

home

the sound

of the fax machine

screeches in my ear

I realize the trick

I look back to the counter

She is gone

the paper ploy

with the false number

perfect

for her disappearance act.

–

So there I am

looking around

at the under developed

Yangon airport

like a mouse

caught

in the

rusty spring

of a

trap.

Stuck.