Flying to New Jersey
Slap some wings on me And I’ll fly easier, thirty thousand feet Above the ground of dusty shoes. Seen from above, the San Francisco fog Has flattened out and spread across the state. Rivers, peaks and plains Form the features of its airbrushed terrain. Suddenly, green land appears, Sliding underneath a broken coast of fog. I hold my breath and say a prayer. Superstition is reflexive; earnest pleadings Bring a sense of calm as I commend my soul. The pitch of apprehension fades When I notice that the air is stale, the quarters Cramped. Next time, I’ll take the...
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