sad lisa

She is just another girl,
huddled up untouchable in the window seat,
staring 30,000 feet straight down into November,
10 PM.

As she paced in place in the anxious line,
waiting to board the 737,
she spoke of in-laws and hospital stays,
cigarettes and wine,
a dread of New Hampshire cold,
and a dog, black on the surface,
unlike the boy who ran away.

Now she is still,
absorbed in inner space at altitude,
while Cat Stevens chants of her,
a whisper above the friction noise of the fuselage.

But Stevens got to touch the tears this Lisa will not shed
(she’s probably never heard of him, by any name);
this Lisa will get up in a few minutes,
collect her suitcase at the baggage claim,
then cart her things to the parking lot and drive away.

And I –
as usual, I can do nothing.

   - O Ceallaigh

Copyright © 2006 Felloffatruck Publications. All wrongs deplored.

All opinions are mine as a private citizen.