Morning Poem, March 7, 2016


White halls, slick with new tile
And bald men in blue suits
Pulling just the right bag, every one of them
What mistakes could they have made that led them here
Where all is sales and schedules
To this world where nothing blossoms

They call on devices, with money to spend
And miss what they longed for, again and again
And build on an image and get what they can
And let word slip out about all they have gained


The plane is so big that when it rolls over the tarmac
Toward the “jetway,” some accordioned gate now collapsed
Now extending
It seems that the earth beneath is moving
And this giant ship is standing still
Everywhere is the loud rush of air
Within and without
Vacuuming away place and time and distance.

Copyright 2016

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