13A

In a narrow space,

With such little place

That skin touches skin

And shoulders kiss shoulders,

13A is the loneliest place on Earth

There are six rows

Of backs

And of backs of heads

Thirty-two of in a column

And we all share,

Without complaint,

In a recycled supply

Of manufactured oxygen

Yet, no words are exchanged

Between us

All named,

From the same pool of numbers and letters

To become coded combinations

Like 13A,

Midway between the end and the beginning

Of this very narrow space

There are a few

Who share seats and coded memories,

Like the mother and child on 12E

Or like 22C and 22D

Who engage

In intimate conversation

While the rest of us form a memory

Likely to be forgotten

As we eavesdrop on the chattering engine,

Whose tone is loud and overpowering

And unrelenting in its conversation

With the thin, cold air outside