I stare out the double-paned window
of seat 9F, overlooking this
dollhouse world.

Some things below us are only
noticeable through a ginger-ale-laced
dream perspective.

My eyes trace the geometry of the boulevards
and buildings and baseball diamonds
that appear to have been drawn from above.

The motherboard cities, with ports and control
panels that never dim, cast orders
to faceless men.

Parks and forests speckle the firework sprawl
with inky patches of greenery where electricity dies
and minds and feet can wander.

I see squid-armed lakes and coral trees,
schools of cars in an asphalt sea, full of people
who forget that anyone else exists.

The world seems so beautiful and movable,
like blocks waiting to be knocked down,
rearranged, rebuilt.

But then: rooftop angles,
sidewalk divisions. Buildings rise
and the tarmac appears.

Wings shudder and wheels strike asphalt–
a collision you can never fully brace yourself for–
jarring me back inside my own head.

And I look over to the woman beside me,
only to find her still sleep-drooling
on a half-read SkyMall.