LaGuardia’s finest
       at it again—
   not *cancelled*,
    not *departed*,

   just that special third state:
     “oh-sweetie-we’re-trying”

I knew before she did.

Eyes on the inbound,
     like a hawk in a boarding group.

Flight buddies?

More like delay prophets.

You ever *watch* a plane taxi for two hours?

I have.

I’ve aged.

She could’ve flown to Paris
    faster than that pushback-to-nowhere.

I kept the updates coming:
          “Still sitting.”
          “Still sitting.”
          “Still sitting.”

       “Still—yep. Still.”

At some point the map just gave up:
            plane icon disappeared,

             replaced by a *shrug*.

And Mari?
    Cool as ever.

Called an audible,
       moved to tomorrow’s flight like it was a brunch reservation.

“Coal’ll be thrilled,” I say.

He already knows.

He’s already curled up with a smug look
     and his softest blanket.

So—
   another night in limbo,
           missed dinner table,
           stretch of sky *not* traversed.

But hey,
    not all delays are disasters.

Coal gets a bonus night of cuddles.

Mari gets this rambling. (weak consolation prize, I know)

I get to reset the “Not Far Tonight” ticker.

My eyes glued to that inbound jet—
                       *SWA 5146*
                       from Vegas,
                       to Atlanta.

And LaGuardia gets to
    stew in its own mediocrity
    one more evening.

Not tonight, either.

But tomorrow?

Oh, tomorrow better _fucking_ behave.