Ten feet from our parting,
your flight faces an hour’s delay.
In this land of wayward clocks,
time’s numbers have lost their sway.
People rush, a frenetic tide,
no pause, no respite, they race and flee,
Darwin’s offspring, in desperate stride,
a species trapped in ceaseless spree.
As we journeyed from our abode,
the windows sealed against the rain,
a radio droned with an irksome code,
a comedian’s train departure refrain.
I, instead, binged on your nose-pin’s gleam,
like an endless ad for life’s delay,
a medicine to stave off heart’s extreme,
its radiance outshining the darkest gray.
Rain fell with unusual grace,
mostly on my side of the divide,
while yours enjoyed a drier space,
as the universe in its rhythm sighed.
Flight numbers broadcast like a curfew’s knell,
warning those who’d stroll the floor,
for such daring, they’d fare not well,
a fate few dared to explore.
At the Café, my query took flight,
“Why does it ever rain in this place?”
The waiter spoke, his tone polite,
“It departs when it’s time, sir,” his grace.
Your earrings, on this Sunday noon,
boldly proclaimed their vibrant sound,
while your hands sought mine in tune,
to assure me that love was profound.
A dog sauntered through the airport gate,
nobody paid it any heed,
a guard gave chase, alas too late,
laughter bubbled from your freed.
The joy of flight, a fleeting bliss,
a moment’s escape in wild delight,
the dog eluded the guard’s near miss,
much like your departing flight.
For a moment, your purse I clasp,
your steps hasten, eager to go.
At the final security grasp,
I ask, my voice trembling, though,
“When will you return, my dear?”
“Whenever the moment finds its call,”
you reply, dispelling my fear.
The waiter was right, after all,
the rain stopped as you left it all.
