rhythym in their speech

I was sitting down in the big silver bird. listening to women chatter,
rhythm in their speech:
early mornings.
New York City.
eating 'bret-fus'
with grown sons.
two women, tired, in navy jump suits, working suits, like mechanics, one with short blonde hair, sharp against her caramel skin. beautiful caramel skin. Susan, she says. she wears an endless smirk as her eyes follow an apathetic flight attendant.
they speak easy and honest. hair cuts, long hours, bad uniforms.
I wish I could be included in their world, but instead I am embarrassed when two eyes catch me listening.
little feet against my seat. little noises behind my head. babies squeal.
inserting headphones.
turning up seventeen, black cat, discotraxx. eye lids grown heavy.
lulled by electronic waves of children's voices, and women's wisdom, their beauty too great to be tainted by hard labor and ugly jump suits.
engulfed in the dark sky, I revel in their presence and watch tiny lights shift below.
I don't want to land.
I know I will never see them again.