ManicDDaily

The Man Who Flew That He Might Dream

Most of his musings, as a child,
were honestly awake;
then, blue sky alone
bowled him over
and any glow of moonface wowed
his inner space.

But as he grew, his view of sky from ground
ground down;

and it was only when he flew
that he flew,
a window seat beaming him up
to not-sea deeps,
clouds outside the plexiglass crowding him (gently)
into the subconscious.

He shut his eyes
to the passed peanuts
and anything else that might betray that place
where non sequiturs were made to follow,
where desires were grasped,
the dear lost, then found–yet still endlessly sought–
where nothing could be truly sold
or bought–
(he’d gone into international marketing for
the miles)–

where he simply knew things,
as one does in dreams, of great
gravity.

He tried to hold onto these through landings’ thud, against
the brakes, above the flat
of tarmac, the bright blink
of all those phones, the thickening beat
of his own clipped heart.

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Poem for my own prompt on With Real Toads about flight.  Pic is mine; rights reserved.