Concourse Delema

I've fallen hopelessly in love
With at least a hundred women
since my plane landed
an hour ago,
Another hour
until my next flight,
Another hundred
unrequited love affairs,

They stroll down the C Concourse
the D
through the N Satellite,
In their tight pants
spike heels
loose fitting blouses,

They all have stories
(I know)
Government-issued picture IDs,

They all made love
(I'm sure)
last night, or first thing this morning
before snaking into those tight jeans
before hailing a taxi,
A dash of lipstick
splash of traveling perfume,
a quick goodbye kiss,

And now they're traveling
through the airport
(through my brain),
To San Jose,
San Francisco
Cabo San Lucas
San Somewhere,
Heels clicking on the marble floor
faded demine fabric
stretched across their derrières,

I try not to stare
but it is impossible not to.