Finally, a poem. (That sounded a little emo, I think.)

In The Airplane

It’s like waiting to be born,
waiting for the deep hook of the air
to come pierce our chests,
fling us up into the mechanical sky
with its constant dull ding
and shades that open and close,
close and open, like the blink
of a great sleepy eye.

I’m not sure I want to sit so close
to you, stranger, but you’re showing me
me photos of the flood in your backyard,
the Big Wheel and basketball sunk in the mud,
and your stiff blond hair pokes my shoulder
as if to say, pay attention.

They’re de-icing our wings with pink froth
while you tell me about the Iranian boys
you hosted, how they read so silently
in their borrowed rooms, their perfect
dark little hands always hidden --

your soft voice the drone of an angel,
once she has given up and gone to earth.