across the sea, land tomorrow,
place of former tyranny whose very name
equates with terror. At the equator
hobnobbing, seminaring (can that be a verb?),
hopefully seeing sights,
posting pictures for those back at home.
Fretting, temporarily forgetting that
air travel's touted as quite safe, pouting
just a little, too, it's been so long since
I've been squeezed in between
two fellow travelers for pent-up hours.
They'll be days like that, exotic destination's
distant. Praying for a seat nowhere near
a toddler who can't sleep aboard a plane,
loud louts, close talkers, gum snappers,
people shouting into phones at every
opportunity. Fretting they'll be vital items
left behind that concierges cannot
helpfully provide. It's on my mind illogically,
irrationally, but indubitably too.
Old friends are often like that.
(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013
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