I fly by night
over scapes of sea and isle,
I'll fall gently down,
a floating cloud,
a feather landing
upon sodden earth,
damp and bedraggled,
a small part of a whole.
A small bit of soul.
I pick and pick my
fingers, the nails flake
and chip, limestone
on tender red waves,
riding over sediment of
knuckle-bone.
The plane drones on
and I can't cross my legs,
collapse myself like fire logs,
I must supplicate to
the outstretch, the lack
of bend that mends
an anxious brain, feign
sleep, down deep
in the fog of wakefulness
the foreverness of an
alert brain that wishes
to rest, a cat tail that
swishes, a bat awake
at night, I am nocturnal.
On airplanes, my red eyes stay open,
closing down thoughts of
dreams I may live to
forget instead I get
streams of consciousness
and cramping legs,
too straight to be
built for slumber,
can I slowly timber
and fall into
unrest? the best I can
do for now, how
would it be to kick
down the seat
in front of me, and
have them fold
neatly in two while I use
the space to take up less,
needing more, the
floor is too close,
the window touches
my elbow, my toes
cramp, damp in
the ever so slight bend
in my knees that squeeze
into 90 degrees of discomfort.
Only four more hours
of this poor excuse
for a seat, meet
a real chair, why don't you,
and learn by example
the ample room
you could provide.
My behind, find it
in your stitches
to give more room
lessen the gloom
that lingers on
long flights, due to
this upright spoon
position, a notion
that makes my
nose crinkle as my
knees crackle and pop,
let the drop happen
soon, may I fall,
may I float,
land this air boat
that rides unsteady
waves of wind and fog.
May I rest like the tail of
an unhappy dog.