Her eyes focused
into a cabin full of suits,
mothers and daughters
returning from the funerals
of corporate meetings.
They're the only ones
who'll fly to Baltimore
this time of year.
And I sit
staring out the window.
My reflection gazing in.
Thoughts are absorbed into the thick plastic
and fly past the wingtip,
into the stratosphere,
then out to space.
Just a few hours
until landing
on your pillow.
Until then
I imagine
the last time I saw you
on my own pillow
beneath me.
Erica Francis
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/wingtip/
