Well, fifty if I count,
My hair is washed and breakfast in my mouth,
Music is my ear's sound,
Chewing, too, as I watch people walk by,
All, waiting for a plane,
Or running for one, e'er one or other,
In either case, there is no one to blame,
Ev'ry once in a while, I meet an eye,
That's when I try to smile,
Proof that I acknowledge that they are there,
As they me for a while,
Naught more needed,
They can board at their gate,
I know they are out there and know I'm here,
With screens and food, neither early nor late.
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