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You would think they were loading us onto boxcarsfrom the looks on the faces of my fellow air travelers.Brought here by seasonal longing, we stand in dead airemanating frets, questions, but compliant.We stand gathered beside our rolling bags,lined up for inspection, selection,awaiting the metallic clatter of boarding instructions,rows this and that, what did she say?Mouths droop at their corners; eyes meet then flicker away.Tongues, carved from our mouths with box cutters,