So Onions waits in the airport lounge,
kicking his heels, playing Plants Vs Zombies
on his phone and imagining what his daughter
looks like now. Three years, stitched together
through a series of sun-bleached photographs
like a jerky flickbook, each frame
a whole month.
He plays the fruit machine each morning at 10,
buys a Tracker from the shop
and smiles at the lady, checks his texts.
Sometimes he stands, pig-nosed against the glass,
and watches planes refuel.
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