window seat
"I don't even like the snow,"
    I tell myself,
    sitting on the plane—
    looking out
    the window, in the dark,
    at the tiny lights
    of the cities far
    below—on my way
    home, where it snows

"but I suppose"
    where I go every year
    and stay about
    a week in December,
    trying (mostly)
    to keep warm
    inside
"it's nice to look at"