The Patron Saint of Cancellations

Berated for the failings of weather by men
who act as if they were acting in a bad play about rage
and decency (or its lack), she cannot help you but still tries
to find other flights to other cities, brainstorms
connections and driving distances, asking if Buffalo
would get you close enough in time—it wouldn’t,
and you won’t get there, and there is no time
anymore, and you will miss the event, whatever it might be—
wedding, graduation, vacation, funeral, last chance
to say goodbye—and there, right there, in front of a line
at least a hundred people long, the length
of how many newsstands, truncated fast food joints,