Airport Egg Salad

On layover in Minneapolis, I take my trust to go

“i don’t trust the egg salad,”

the woman says,  

and i smile, sandwich in hand

while scanning my credit card.

i trust the egg salad,

just as i trust our plane has fuel,

and our pilot, skill.

i trust that those i love,

love me back,

and reality

is not some fever-dream.

i trust the egg salad

made by unseen hands

is reasonably fresh and

salmonella-free.                          

to trust the egg salad

is to trust my beating heart,

to trust that a next breath

follows this one;

to trust the secret work of the universe

benign, unfolding  

just past the edge

of knowing for certain.