Flying

 

Aside from all the instruments, the green

lights and the red lights, glowing indicators

of pending adventures, perils foreseen

and rendered routine, shrewd bargains with fate —

still, it’s really just driving in the sky,

magical mystical touring through four

dimensions — time and space as a highway,

the heart beyond its cage. And those poor

earthbound souls down there below? Not our problem.

 

But in my dreams it wasn’t like this —

no planes or wings or maps. No plans, no jobs —

just floating, just the will to fly. And listen:

no squawk from the radio, just the rush

of the wind, the pull of time, and the push.

 

                                                               for Billy Straus

 

 

© Michael Fleming

Brattleboro, Vermont

August 2018

 

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