On the plane, 
Next to me;
Her book is Arabic, while
The big fellow in front;
Tattoos all over, hugs his daughter,
Whispering thoughts,
To her demurred, shy smile lighting 
The seats where we sit next
To an old man from China going
To see his son after some twenty years:
Typing Chinese characters into his phone.

Yes, the rain is an irony here,
Coming quick and ferocious
Unlike the dampness of home
Where we light fires
And brew soups to convene
The solace of evenings.

Gosh I love all you people,
And want nothing more than
To disappear into those far mountains:
Out there.

For just a day,
I'll watch the water,
Rush down,
So I can be one of you.

Sam A. Flanagan