by Bob Marcacci
We hadn’t eaten yet.
There was a problem at the airport,
All noise and lines.
Angela stayed in San Francisco.
Vito and I left without her.
Vito cried
When he realized she wasn’t going with us.
I cried
Explaining it to him in a way
A four-year-old could understand.
It was hard to understand at forty.
We held hands
When we landed in Doha,
The first time we saw land in Doha.
My ears popped.
Vito turned to me.
He asked if everyone lived in sand houses.
“They’re all brown,” he said looking out the window.
I said, “I don’t know.”
We didn’t know
How hot it was in July.
We were finally here.
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