For a Fearful Flyer

A book at the knees is unread.
Carry-ons guarded between the ankles
are minor possessions you are loath
to part with, things that are the dislocated
you which should never soar, never
wantonly slice through so many climates
in such purer air. The book's tattoo
of thumbprints at the author's preface
will go unnoticed by the janitors,
the flight attendants, and the dapper captains
who saunter by like royalty. Walls of glass
contain what is, ostensibly, the genuine
Middle of Nowhere. Jetways offer the only
practical escape, cold connectors of Here
and There. Now from those channels
the newly arrived stream and smile,
pouring landward, religiously grateful.
You envy their relieved aplomb, the dry hands,
the giddy chatter of wet mouths; but soon
this you, this faceless, purgatoried you,
will also grin and mill among the living.

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