Tray tables up

The passenger up in seat 1a

Is hoping to get home in time

For his son’s 21st birthday

Crack a beer or maybe wine

The stewardess says locate exit doors

Pretending we’ll be fine

But really she just has no clue more

Than the angels who read these rhymes

As we close our eyes over Memphis skies

Bounce on clouds over silver streams

All the ghosts above and down below

Had their own desires and dreams

Some were made and some were had

Luck be good or luck be bad

We all sure pay the fees

But in the end the flights descend

So we’re back home in family trees

The passenger in seat 1a

Is sure lucky to have a friend

When we’re all put back together

It’s how this poem will end

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