shouting airport goodbyes
to cities across the concourse
FORD PROFIT: $1 BILLION
they’re inspecting the plane
at the next gate
let’s hope birds don’t strike
in the same place twice
nor undie bombers
CON IN NEED IS A
COP’S GOOD DEED
Only know the laws of the skies
from the earth where they rule me
this morning green tea & jesus radio
girls from my north
settling scores with the south
I read from my book
attempting same with west
before heading back east
“Where are you coming from?”
“Brooklyn? New Jersey? Chicago?
I don’t know.
I can tell you where I was last.”
life felt in flashes & sheets
on one of two screened-in balconies
an abundance of air and vistas
blood tide rolling below
stadium looming, middle-distant
This must be a town because a city has to have at least one tall building
I said and she gestured toward its behemoth bowl
Airport bar right across from my gate.
Why isn’t Andy here to urge me toward a piña colada, or something else gratuitous.
Something like singing If you like piña coladas. . . .
Too much. It’s too much to drink a piña colada alone at a bar at the Detroit Metro Airport.
Who do you think you are. You only like situations too big or too little for their contexts.
A woman sat down next to me chatting on her phone. When she started talking about a powerful sermon she’d heard earlier in the day I was writing about piña coladas and glanced over toward the bar. She may have taken it as a hint; she got up and left.
I’ve got the qualms. Queasyheaded. Ativan plus piña colada equals love.
It’s autoerotic. It’s biomechanical. It’s a bird, a plane.
I prefer to travel in one plane, by which I mean on the ground.
By which I probably also mean NONSTOP.
There’s a Fuddrucker’s, too. (Don’t tell Andy.)
Which is the same as I wish I could tell Andy.
What justifies a phone call? she tweeted.
Where the top of the plane meets the sky is the same color as the sky. No wonder birds get confused.
Pink planes, I call for pink planes!
Passenger “Your Gramma” please report immediately to Gate A6.