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8 4 Y R E A D I N G A N T O N Y A N D C L E O P A T R A A T T H E A I R P O R T A G A I N A L A N M I C H A E L P A R K E R On the ground by Gate 17, Concourse B, the giant planes do-si-do, delayed, cockpits lighted, as the sky rolls out above the runways, and a herd of clouds parades o√-stage to the south like the elephants of another country’s history. It’s too late on a Sunday night for travelers all to take the world personally, faces tight, pacing and eating, tucking in the kids by phone, being here, not home. Working at a kiosk, a bored teen with a nose ring worries a lock of her hennaed hair as she sells a huge green mug to a Packers’ fan bedecked in green, while his huge green friends nearby belly themselves up to beers at the bar. But now she’s reading again her thumbed copy of Antony and Cleopatra: maybe there will be a test in the morning, where’s the battle, who’s the general, who’s a friend, where’s the lover lurking in the wings of the paperback. 8 5 R Or maybe she imagines her real lover deployed with the Army Rangers in Pakistan. I only have a partial view, it’s all we ever get, despite how great the windows are, how theatrical the curve of the earth, the arms of the beloved, the lighted sky minus the moon. The moon would, of course, finish the scene, signify. I want her boyfriend to text that her barge is ready, the sails trimmed for life together upon any Nile, let’s go, who cares who knows we never passed History, our love besieged by the armies of money. I am dying, Egypt, dying. Give me some wine and let me speak a little. When she lays the book aside to help another customer, a bracelet snakes down her wrist. I’m another customer: I buy a bottle of water and a pack of gum I’ll never chew, just to get a glimpse up close of her movie star eye-liner. ...

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