May 5, 2014
Today I would rather not climb into the cockpit of my poem. Last night I thought, Tomorrow, liftoff!—
but now the sun has opened its mouth and out comes the day in a multiphonic chant. Comes the shadow
of the muntin, the saw-whine of the neighbor’s garage. Comes Mr. Redhat with his seven dogs
dragging him around the park. Comes the quixotic street sweeper swirling some water onto the asphalt.
Come helicopters, come airplanes: insects crammed implausibly with people. Come oil fires of violence—
lucky for me they’re off in the fringes; today, here, they don’t exist. I’m going nowhere.
I’ll sit back with the hatch still open— like in the Smithsonian— eating my sandwich and yogurt.
When I pop out my face to say Hi, you might in that moment (this moment) wave back.