Airport Aroma

By Andrew R. Duckworth

There’s something magical
About the blended aromas
Of coffee, Jet fuel,
And burnt rubber on the tarmac.
Maybe it was Reagan National,
Where a few men
Still carried around the
Washington Post
And thumbed through,
Waiting for a flight.
Or maybe it was Orlando,
Where the airport itself
Is the theme park of airports.
I’m not sure where I first
Associated the aroma with ‘holiday,’
But it’s intoxicating,
Filling the mind with memories
Of the best times
And with anticipation
Of what’s to come.
Perhaps a new city
With new adventure.
Perhaps a city you’ve been to before,
But there is no problem with
Rereading books of old journeys.