The Fellowship of Atlasians

Sitting still and yet time runs on

Hotel lobbies, like airports

Some standing, most rushing

Dragging bags, sweatpants and glasses of wine

We take up four whole tables

Call it a barnstorming

Our weary fellowship of aching shins

Uncharged laptops

Jackets strewn across the benches

Atlasian is the world

Ever weightier on our shoulders

Held off (barely) with iced teas

Plates of fresh pasta

Lamplight refracting through the glass that holds it

Nothing left to lose, and also everything