Trim on the tarmac, shapelier than the plane,
Sleek, streamlined for the job, with tapping heels
She walks, hat cocked, the cynosure of eyes
Of business man and VIPs, who strain
To catch a smile or what a breeze reveals.
The siren of the modern argosies.
Cool and efficient, both to joy and pain
Immune, giving no hint of what she feels
As she welcomes the voyagers of the skies
Into the padded warmth of her domain.
Who is to say, nine thousand feet above
The sprawling earth, so near heaven’s azure floor,
That she, seemingly human, yet should prove
To be than a mere mortal something more?