waiting on a plane in spain

if you can imagine, 

flashing sartorial, 

the blue blazer, pocket square, sunglasses,

even if indoors and overcast, 

headphones on 

unable to not drop and drag every other step to the track playing.  

The flight out of Madrid was late, 

I was wearing my doya-gao, 

my doya face,

moving across the halls of the airport the way I once, when I was ten, saw a young black kid pause, 

get right, 

and begin to walk the upward spiral of the Guggenheim in New York.

Being unmindfully innocuous and nostalgic provides a wonderful opening to moments of inner cool -  

wrapped in irony bubbles.