AND here i am again sitting in a seat in the sky
rocky, knocked against the seatbelt, thinking how peaceful
and my three-and-a-half year old waiting at the gate,
thinking not ready to go, not this time, as we glide down
and i see your matchbox cars wending through tiny towns
and i see the snake of a river close by and crawling off afar
and i see the houses stretch to the horizon and beyond
and i see the curve of the earth from up here and it reminds me
of deserts and festivals and playa dust. And in my mind,
there’s a poem being written, repeated, rehearsed,
because I have no paper and i’m sure that half of it
will be forgotten by the time we land, snatched by
the frenzy of life and “mama! mama!”. And as we get closer,
i see a little red matchbox bus turn a corner and i could pick it up;
it’s smaller than my hand. This whole expanse of high density
intensity the result of some giant child’s obsessive determination.
We get closer still and there’s a matchbox car out there somewhere
expanding in size until it will be big enough to enfold me again,
this whole toy town getting bigger, inexorable, until soon
this detachment, this role I have, observer, commentator,
will once more be swallowed by the rush of all the others,
mother, daughter, partner, business owner and there will no longer
be time for poetry.