Laura and I should have died too,
but a lucky rain in Chicago
delayed our plane
and we missed the connection at JFK.
When we arrived in New York,
I begged the lady at the counter.
“The plane has yet to take off,” I said,
pointing to the mouth of the jetway,
the long tunnel quiet and empty.
“We’re here. Just let us on.”
But the attendant was like stone.
“The doors are closed,” she said,
and we would not be flying to Paris
and then on to Rome,
but instead to Barcelona
and a one-day layover.
