Outside the rain-stained panels of waning sunlight:
the growth of the stars, the timely erection
of airplanes. The passenger’s secondhand slumps,
laconic and bored in its circuit. She adds up the pieces,
the legs, and finds 30 hours:

Theater chairs in makeshift buildings,
narrow chairs in upright positions, stale air, cold air;
Books, all the wrong books; hours wishing for cucumber sandwiches
and a quicker connection.

She inhabits a quiet corner, her luggage like children
at her feet. The sky peers inside; Time, its one-of-a-kind charm,
tinkles against the window.