You are belt-conveyed to your gate
in a terminal’s ever-light, ever-cool,
rolling your baggage behind you
whether departing or returning,
ever following the way forward,
ever carried forward like long division
with a multiplying remainder,
when overhead, as though through a veil,
a woman’s voice speaks to you,
a voice locked to the spot where
no one stays but her, but where
you are brought to hear the truth,
Caution, the moving sidewalk is ending,
before moving on, and she’ll say it again
and again to you or whoever will listen,
Caution, the moving sidewalk is ending,
in the voice of care, of a patient woman
willing to repeat herself for your own good,
as announcing angel of a caring god
who presumes you are blind or distracted
and cannot see that the moving sidewalk
is about to end.

in Poet Lore 107, 1/2