Departure Time-Slip

On rows of chairs heads bark orders at invisible underlings, sharp suited mid-level execs power into conference calls. The more gleaming the sky-palace the skuzzier I feel, the duller the yellow of my crumpled paperback. Air-miles accrued, I bumped myself up to business class. I should have worn a tie. I imagine earlier times, wind-swept form standing beside a bare runway trench coat flapping, fedora pulled low, as I prepare to leave an aerodrome. In a darkened faraway hanger, beneath a solitary wind-sock, a black wall-phone waits for my natty, even stylish arrival.