THE PLANE RIDE
I refolded my Globe having misread
the boarding pass and moved to row 8,
row 8 now filled with three faces,
three trays gaping beaklike and cheeping
baby birds for our snack.
A glitch in the special menu requests so
chicken croissant for everyone, a munch or two
smacked down with a snooze, a dream
world so strange to see it going by
underneath.
Looking like a desert I’m afraid
we have become television sets.
I fear the distortion as Creeley said
and heavy sleepwalk slavery chained by neck
to corn chips, golf, carpeting, car payments.
Tim Hortons like the arms of Jesus.
My elderly Japanese companions looked tired.
But when mountains part the ragged clouds
and the kind attendants sweep things away
with grim latex gloves on, we set
our watches to the new time.
Last reviewed 
5/27/2008 3:43:13 PM
