3:03 AM
you, I, and
nighthawks on the red eye
few reading lights on, shafts
to different worlds

soon, one
will recognize you
ask you to scrawl
something

anything

as long as it comes from your hand
the hand that makes madness melt away
on ivory white and black, prancing
at your proud command
  
the hand that holds mine, not with fondness
but fear, when we are six miles from earth
in this buzzing tube

you do not trust
hollow birds to stay aloft
all that stolen steel, you claim
is not meant
to fly

yet you always
choose the window seat
to watch the world
crawl by

perhaps, by 3:04
someone will ask for your hand
long enough to create a mythic memory for them
a digital distraction for you,
one you'll forget before
we land