A little poetry

Boarding the plane alone

“Final boarding call for flight 457 to Minneapolis,”

says the lady behind the desk.

In line, someone taps me on the back.

I spin around to greet the kneeling knight,

Mr. Tall-Dark-Handsome.

“You dropped this,” he says with a smile,

presenting a glittering ring.

And now, in the middle of Terminal A

I believe the Disney movies, and the dress-up,

and the messages on the candy hearts.

Rewind: look again.

Tapping is the habit of polite passers-by, not princes.

Mr. Tall-Dark-Handsome says,

“You dropped this,” and holds out my boarding pass.

“Thank you,” I say.

I realize that the white stallion is a scuffed beige suitcase,

and the prince is Mr. Dutiful-Stranger,

checking the monitors to find his gate,

somebody’s baby flying home for Christmas.