Long Haul

The flight was long. We didn’t touch.
Somewhere over the Atlantic,
I ordered my complimentary glass
of red wine. He was nodding off,
our daughter between us. She slept
with her head on my arm. The rest
of the plane glowed under soft light.
I could have reached my hand to his
knee, I think, if I’d tried. A woman
wrapped a scarf around her throat.
Another asked for tea. Mostly, I watched
him as he tried to sleep. Soon, the row
of closed windows would open to night
in the city we’d left behind, and we’d stand
in line, move slowly through customs,
and say we had nothing to declare.