Nov. 9
(for Dickie)

You will think this overly
sentimental, but I miss being
able to stand at the huge
window at the gate where
the gigantic jet has just
pulled up, and,

as person after person
emerges from the jetway,
I search for your head,
the still-there hair I trim
every six weeks or so,
your smile, your eyes
looking for me.

And even though we
are too old and practical
for a running, rom-com
embrace, I know, if I were
still allowed to be there,
watching you return,

that my heart would
gather speed down its
own runway, find the
sweet spot where wheels
lift off into mere air,

taking flight, soaring,
even after all these years,
happy to be in your
airspace once again.