In Which I Fly Home

It is a strange feeling,
Standing on a plane.
Looking out a plastic portal and grasping
The notion that under my feet
And a few sections of steel

Miles of sky and cloud exist with
Unparalleled stature.
And here I am floating by people,
Cities, lakes, treetops, rooftops,

Reminiscent of the walking scene in
Every Spike Lee movie in my collection.
If you haven’t ever watched one
Then that last line makes no sense.

But it makes me laugh, that, and this
Travel without muscular locomotion.
This idea of moving myself
Without moving myself.

It makes me laugh like
All the children on this morning’s flight,
Hair alive with youth and static
From lying in their mother’s lap.

Underneath me, I am sure,
Are single-serve bowls,
Tables set for two,
Families crowded into diner booths,
And infants at swollen breasts.

I would give anything to be
Witness to each their own homecoming.
A silent partner in private
Happiness & turbulence,

Confidante and imaginary tree-house guest,
Stayer of knife blades,
And interpreter of shared lover’s looks.
However, I am moving without moving

Toward my own ten year absence
With open mind and hungry stomach.
And touching down means to be
No longer aloft with strange feelings,
But grounded in them.