Leaving home was always a chore for Harry
Only the comfort of solitude gave him any comfort
Still the season forced him out of his hibernation from humanity
Thus he was stuck in this terminal waiting for his flight
As if fate wanted to see him squirm, now his plane was delayed
Nothing was moving because of the two feet of white stuff outside
Denver was now his home for the next day or so
Finding a landing zone, Harry watched his fellow nomads
Outside they acted cordial, putting on a mask of civility
Under that mask, Harry could see kindred spirits
Now a sincere smile spread on his face
Despair loved company. Harry had discovered his tribe.
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