I’m always in awe of landing
again and again, this giant vessel
straight out of the sky makes toys
grow up, those little sand piles
in the backyard, mills.
We zoom closer and closer
to a little gray strip. It’s not getting
off the ground, that’s too easy,
just flick the imagination switch,
run into abstract planes, all those
airports for birds in the sky
and Orlando is the worst,
you get held up for miles,
wings worn out for hours
but anyway,
it’s the landing. When you trade
in those wings and hit the concrete,
when you break down your dreams
with a mallet made of dirt,
that’s the part that makes me stare
out the tiny window watching
life become real again, watching
suburbia outside of Atlanta, watching
so much construction of new roads
and countless ends in cul-de-sacs
and knowing
how many don’t have homes
and how many reasons there are
and how many reasons there aren’t.
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