There’s no news in poetry but I’m dying
for what is found there and nowhere else
not in the rehearsed feints of habit
carrying me through alleys narrowed to alone
or here at cruising altitude, seat belts fastened
in case of a fall to where nothing moves below
what if the warrens emptied while
I put my tray-table and seat-back
into upright position?
what if all that’s left below
is our stinking flesh flayed
from the steel bones of the city?
the fat woman next to me
sweating into the folds of her seat
and whispering to her whimpering dog
in a 7000 dollar purse my fellow parishioner?
the yellow lights that outline the pews
lead to blue lights pointing to no exit
the priest’s voice assuring me that
while it may not appear so,
breath is flowing into me and
I should attend to myself before
helping others
and from everywhere a warning: buckle up,
you’ve been illuminated, service will resume
after a change in elevation,
navigating through unexpected turbulence
in search of a smoother ride.
[pad 3.1 – 6/16/09]
