Poem at 36,200 feet

So often, too late

what really matters, so lightly left behind...

Your green eyes in the dark room,

your toes touching me.

Watching the inspiration and expiration in the middle of your dreams...

Now, I see the left wing swinging

and ice starts taking shape in the window,

whilst the speakers indifferently announce:

“Dear passengers, We are flying at 36,200 feet”.


SGOR 09