Air Hostess


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?