Grand Rapids smell of burnt toast
Moves like a pastel mall-walker defying
Predawn blankness, sub-zero cold.
The other stunned migrants sit folded
In practice for the confined transit to come:
Uncommunicative, unsmiling, unsure.
Because small disasters are bound to occur:
Beverage cart out of vodka, seat neighbor
Full of gas, no friendly face waiting upon arrival.
Home smells of desolation, shed skin and dishes
left unwashed. No mail on the welcome mat.
The unmade bed awaits its undead occupant.