He boarded the plane,
Flight Three Eighty Two,
Didn’t bother to read the destination.
The first ticket out of here,
And he’d be gone, he had said.

It hadn’t been five minutes
Before the first hanging in the lavatory.
The Stewardess couldn’t take it,
Never knowing anyone,
Never knowing anywhere.
Nothing lasted more than eight hours.
Living was an abstraction to her,
She never really killed herself
If she never really lived.

His wife had left him at the gate,
With another man,
Clutching the papers like a lifeline.
The stewardess thought herself to be okay,
Only yesterday;
But don’t we all just lose it?