Air flecked with blue and gold and green, one soft
grey strip of cloud against which a plane’s silhouette
moves toward a distant airfield. We’re all going
somewhere, aren’t we? Even if we’re huddled
in these rooms in rows of vinyl chairs, or later
packed three deep in an elevator car ascending
or descending through a windowless shaft.
Who could hear the faint hush of crickets
from inside this womb? Who could hear
the chant of cicadas or the rumbling in
the bowels of the earth? The woman pressed
against the wall has earrings in the shape of
coffee cups. All I can think of is you,
and where you are at this moment. The man
in the blue-and-white seersucker suit
presses buttons for all our floors:
nine, eight, seven, six; five,
four, three, two, one.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.