Am I standing like my father

Or the idea of how he stands outside baggage, a pallbearer on smoke break, one hand in his pocket. I am trying to hone my posture, waiting for someone, pulled in various directions. Everything turns blue the longer I look. I never get tired of watching unclaimed bags ride the carousel. Clouds beyond tall windows become people. My parents ride a tandem bike among cumulonimbus. They empty their bags out atop the blue carpet. Everything they need.  


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