She comes here most mornings,
sipping a cup of coffee,
or clutching some new book in her hand
waiting, for what-- I don't know.
She never gets on,
she never gets off
and there's something off
a sorrow that lingers
long after she departs.
People rush to and fro
their legs propelling them
towards their destination
but there she sits,
gazing out the window
under the shadow of the airplane's silhouette.
The mechanized birds,
with their frozen white wings
soar into the sky.
But she remains,
a semi-permanent resident
of this transient abode.
Perhaps she is too scared to come aboard,
or perhaps she's waiting for someone
who never comes,
or maybe she simply loves the motion,
the cacophony of people
that bustle through this busy place.
Today she sits alone, empty-handed
just like yesterday,
just like she will tomorrow,
no suitcase full of memories of who she was
or who she wishes she could be.
Splotches of purple cover her arms
like a bird who as rubbed its wings raw
during the molting process.
With eyes like that of a hawk
she watches as the planes make their way down the runway
and into the sky.
Maybe one day she will get on a plane
and soar high above the clouds
and charter a new path--
but not today.
Today she sits,
clutching her mug in a grip too tight
watching the airplanes fly off
into the morning sun,
trapped within the shadow of their glory.