Flight (Poem)

Flight

I try not to squint at the sun.

The silver glitter and the roar

capture my attention,

I watch the airplane cut the wind

like a crow in Christmas’ Eve.

It seems effortless but everybody knows

how hard it is to move with no floor.

Perhaps it is on its way to London,

non-stop.

Perhaps it will take a small detour

to New York.

I don’t know.

Inside, a child cries,

desperate for attention

disturbing a lover

deciding what is the next

step and a man that is

so tired, wanting to get there,

wanting to never

go at all.

He pushes back his seat

and spills the drink

of a poet behind that

had opened his tray table

with a poem in his heart

that died as the pen glides,

meaningless and full of angst.

Besides him the baseball player

that never was

passes the time counting

trading cards that were never

in packs.

Watching the

window of clear

plexiglass I can see my face,

my eyes, my head, reflected

in the pale silvery light.

(2003)