on the departure
the woman to my left was writing furiously
line upon line
page after page;
i thought it was poetry,
it was her new job description.
on the return
the woman to my my left was reading
laughing out loud, smiling and covering her mouth;
she kept her finger on the page
as the flight attendant handed her a snack.
a few rows ahead of me
a man spills his drink;
the ice nearly reaching my feet.
i didn’t hear the cup crash
beacause i was listening to music.
are we really flying?
or did the plane jump high enough
for the world to spin beneath us?