At the Shuttle Bus Stop, they see the All American Shuttle, the Apollo Shuttle, Celebrity Airport Livery, the Great American Stageline, the Movie Shuttle, the Transport, Ride-4-You, and forty-two other magic buses waiting to whisk them everywhere from Bakersfield to Disneyland.
They see fast-talking, finger-snapping, palm-slapping jive artists straight from their TV screens shouting incomprehensible slogans about deals, destinations, and drugs.
Above them in the terminal, voices are repeating, over and over, in Japanese, Spanish, and unintelligible English, “Maintain visual contact with your personal property at all times.”
There are “Do Not Cross” yellow lines cordoning off parts of the sidewalk and “Wells Fargo Alarm Services” stickers on the windows; there are “Aviation Safeguard” signs on the baggage carts and “Beware of Solicitors” signs on the columns; there are even special phones “To Report Trouble.”
There are no military planes on the tarmac here, the newcomers notice, no khaki soldiers in fatigues, no instructions not to take photographs, as at home; but there are civilian restrictions every bit as strict as in many a police state.
Around them is an unending cacophony of antitheft devices, sirens, beepers, and car-door openers; lights are flashing everywhere, and the man who fines them $16 for losing their parking ticket has the tribal scars of Tigre across his forehead.
infection transmitted by inhalation or ingestion of bacilli
oh mother you plunged me sobbing and laughing
into our past
into the river crossing at five
into the spinach fields
into the plainview cotton rows
into tuberculosis wards