The Flight from Cincinnati

In the unrecognizable sea
of identity, someone seems
to recognize me, a face that looks
like someone I know.
I am here, it seems, to pick them up,
but it is not me (we just look like someone we know).
I almost wave, and do smile,
and, as we fail to match the tags with our eyes, out comes
the "what the hell do you want from me?" vibe,
the "don't you see how much love I have?" variation,
but it is all because more of me is seen than I recognize.

The people who wait look confused, then,
finding their travelers, lose themselves
in recognition, the woes of the waiting
turned to song and story—then I, too,
disappear again.