Airplane Poem #2

	
This is where we live: south
of rain, north of soil, at the level
of strobe lightning on the night horizon – 
Valhalla's Fourth of July.
My plastic cup of chardonnay quivers,
quiets a fog of qualms in the cabin.
We pay the price of being gods 
of distance who can't stop the plane 
from shaking like a snapped dishrag.
I think of nursery rhyme giants
bowling our heads. We are not giants, though 
we have mastered Odysseus' trick
and zoom twixt Scylla and Charybdis, while Homer
Simpson plays on the back of all the seats.
Luggage in the compartments rattles.
In cabin socks, we feel like imps in Olympus. 
Numb toes will touch down and we'll wheel 
our carry-ons down the escalators
and try to locate improbable ground,
find our balance on the freeway,
in speed we need.

© Rachel Dacus

first published in Swink, 2005