Anton in the Airport
what a shame to be delayed,

what a shame to have to tell
strangers the tale of your sins
like prayers off a rosary,

what a shame to drink iced coffee
in between gulps of hot air
from the underside of your face mask,

what a shame
to no longer have fame,

to have stayed
locked inside the mind

for centuries. I told you
once about the black and white
portrait of the WWI soldier I found
at an antique store years ago;

told you how I adopted him,
gave him a first name,

gave him my last name, hung him
in the foyer of my home so
everyone who came and went would
be greeted by his long dead

you said I was bat-shit crazy.

Now in the airport
in September, masked up and vaguely irritated
over nothing at all,

I unpack the old story,
bring you back like a specter

a living fog.

You said you didn't see the point in ownership
or claim,

argued that the dead boy was someone else's,
and could never truly belong to me.

We make our own history
and he's mine.