the men in suits laugh loudly,
they speak of quarters, of the year and the purse, and feel as if they belong.
they wear a well-pressed uniform of espresso and leather, reminding them of places and people to go, see, win over. their travelogue a resume of nights away, alone, on task.
surely all this roaming will get them somewhere.
surely there’s a runway worth a landing longer than a layover.
in the paralyzing din of take-off, they close their eyes and see the same silence as every other traveler, feel the force of this day’s trekking pressing against them, and sense for an instant their true selves at ten thousand feet.
it’s only at altitude, at the ding of the glowing cigarette, that they remember their suits and begin again to speak the tedious tongue of their tribe.