Vacation

By

Rita Dove

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.

Credits:  This poem can also be found at Poets.org.  Painting by Georgia O'Keeffe.