If Hell is Real, It Looks Like an Airport (Jorge Arturo

If Hell is Real, It Looks Like an Airport (Jorge Arturo - New Orleans, LA)

“See ya later aviator,”

Lies the sign over the door to Hell

Where every flight you want to take it delayed.

In hell, the only destinations are ones with

Long lines, ones with screaming children,

Or Florida.

You need an outlet? You can’t have an outlet

Everybody’s using all the outlets to charge the phone

They’ll use to hold loud, familiar conversations over FaceTime.

You’ll get to learn about Aunt Carol’s rash, and David’s foreign girlfriend,

And “why can’t you just date somebody normal for once?”

And “why can’t you just put out when I get home for once?”

And “Hello? Can you hear me? Turn up your volume, mom.”

“You don’t need to hold the phone so close to your face, dad.”

“You don’t need to be such a dick, man.”

You think you’ll find a seat? You might find a seat.

It won’t be a comfortable seat.

It’ll be bleak and it’ll be plastic, like the life you led that sent you here

And it’ll be wedged between two people whose idea of personal space

is no less than 3 inches inside of you.

And they’ll be named after the grandparents you never called,

because hell loves a little irony

Maybe you’ll get some reprieve by the bar,

Hell’s gotta have alcohol, given the amount of people it’s taken here.

The bartender will come up

and you’ll ask for a drink

and he’ll serve you cheap beer that tastes like

the beer you drank before the first time you cheated on him

Blaring over the speakers in hell are the beach boys’,

Listing all the pretty places you definitely won’t be going

Aruba, Jamaica, oooh, I wanna take ya

to Florida.

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