I love the hour before takeoff，

    that stretch of no time， no home

    but the gray vinyl seats linked like

    unfolding paper dolls. Soon we shall

    be summoned to the gate， soon enough

    there‘ll be the clumsy procedure of row numbers

    and perforated stubs—but for now

    I can look at these ragtag nuclear families

    with their cooing and bickering

    or the heeled bachelorette trying

    to ignore a baby‘s wail and the baby’s

    exhausted mother waiting to be called up early

    while the athlete， one monstrous hand

    asleep on his duffel bag， listens，

    perched like a seal trained for the plunge.

    Even the lone executive

    who has wandered this far into summer

    with his lasered itinerary， briefcase

    knocking his knees—even he

    has worked for the pleasure of bearing

    no more than a scrap of himself

    into this hall. He‘ll dine out， she’ll sleep late，

    they‘ll let the sun burn them happy all morning

    —a little hope， a little whimsy

    before the loudspeaker blurts

    and we leap up to become

    Flight 828， now boarding at Gate 17.