Diary of a Terminal Cleaner

I’m cleaning the floors before first light,

When Schiphol yawns and sheds the night.

And as the morning planes descend,

The world begins to twist and bend.

From distant lands, they come in waves—

With hats, perfumes, and weekend shaves.

Some chase dreams, some chase the mall,

All funnel through my echoing hall.

From Dubai lands a gilded flight,

With Arab sheikhs dressed all in white.

Their bags are fat with cash and gold,

Their watches loud, their perfume bold.

Then comes Beijing, smooth and sleek,

With traders sharp and scholars meek.

Each one holds, with steady grip,

A calculator on their hip.

Big steps echo through the space—

Americans, in full embrace.

With coffee cups and baseball caps,

They march through customs like it’s laps.

From Taiwan come minds so bright,

Chip lords landing in the light.

With laptop backpacks and silent grace,

They rule the tech that runs this place.

A plane from Congo hits the ground,

And joy and color leap around.

With foods I’ve never smelled or named,

And songs that can’t be ever tamed.

Then enter gems from Latin lands,

With Spanish tones and dancing hands.

Colombians with that jungle glow,

And mystery gifts they never show.

All these souls from far and wide,

With selfie sticks and stride-of-pride.

They taste our cheese, explore the streets,

And trade their coins for local treats.

But in a week or maybe two,

They’ll shuffle back—less bold, more blue.

Sunburnt, broke, and craving sleep—

While I still mop and secrets keep.