Everyone here is scared.
In this way we are all the same.

Security at the doors assures
no more dangers enter.
No more danger than we each carry
within ourselves.

The coughing, the swelling.
The mother cradling a baby,
bleeding at the head.
My own baby, a man now,
next to me.

Across from us a woman in layers,
her cart piled high with worldly possessions.
Her dog dressed in a Seahawks jersey.
He likes to sit by her on the bench
but the roving security guard shoos him down.

There’s been a man in the bathroom
for far too long. The woman waiting
refuses other bathrooms. She wants this one.
Wants that man out. Kicks at the door.
Rolls back and forth in the wheelchair – kicks again.

Everyone here is scared
and does it a little differently.
Loud friendly chattering, sleeping.
Ranting, yelling, silence.

We watch. And wait. We wait.
We are all scared.
In this way, we are all the same.