An old man moves quickly for his age,
Approaches the airport's picture window,
Leans in, arms crossed on the sill,
Chin on his arm for added balance.
Eyes never leaving the slow-moving jet,
His hard stare seemingly wills it along,
Across the tarmac to its waiting gate.
He repositions his glasses, mumbles softly,
Not nearly loud enough to be heard
By travelers oblivious to him and the plane,
Happily staring instead at screens,
Killing time before their rides arrive
To whisk them far, far away
To another place in time, the way
The old man, while watching, is transported
Back to childhood, a time when toys
And imagination could do all the work,
To where, perhaps, he hopes he could be–
Arriving sooner than departing.
