|4. an SR-71 at 82,000 feet
where high above the earth
I touch the evening air against my wings
and if I'm fast enough I'll chase
the fragile sunset's purple glow
forever through a slowly fading sky
until I tire.
|3. a 757 at 38,000 feet
the first class curtain has been safely drawn
with six seats and an aisle her company..
the woman to her left will snore
nothing that's so important in her ear
the dinner pretzels have been served
she thinks now, smiling: we won't need
much food here, wedged and shackled in our seats
not unlike galley slaves of old
(at least we do not have to row this plane).
And to her right the rotund man
whose weight has caused the wing to dip,
descends a landslide stomach on
the armrest she would surely
like to use..
where now the cabinlights are low
and outside it's pitchdark,
she's safe in this coccoon
at mach point eight, according to the magazine;
she'll pray this plane is safe to fly
and wonders whose these lights are down below
the captain hadn't said a word
about the places they've been over now
for really quite a while
(they're busy with the plane she'd guess),
and wonders what the timezone is we're in
and if we'll land on time,
and if there's still a pillow left
inside bin seventeen.
|2. at 40 feet
the rushing air
beneath the pale owl's outstretched wings
will make no sound
as talons carve
their whispered gash
through nightime sky,
her dark eyes pierce
illusions of those hiding.
|1. an airport
where she's been running
forty days and forty nights
from her own tears
and she will pour
a cup from
her own sorrows' heart
to any stranger in this place
who would come near.
where at an airport in
a city she has never been
she'll wait for a connecting flight
and revel in the strangers all around;
she's drenched in people she has never met
that, when her plane leaves, she will never see again.
a few more drinks along she'll think she knows
that she will miss them all.
|© Jon Bohrn (1998)|