GOING HOME
In the countenance of unlocked winds,
The moth-sustained night withers, and
Chicago, turning from drowsiness,
Turning into the flat Indiana countryside
Below me, is ladled with rain.
And I am flying away from the coldness
Of those early morning concrete streets.
A coldness which is deeper in my bones than
A funeral march, much deeper than the winter’s
Winds off Lake Michigan that howl and rumble
Though the giant maze like an invading army.
A passenger in row twenty-two, I turn and
Peer through the small porthole in the starboard
Side at the Windy City, a just epithet for all the
Past blowhard politicians. Chicago is on display
In a fragile crystal ball, the steel monuments
Scratch the clouds and the river demurs and
Curls backwards.
The city fades beneath the clouds,
And I am going home to the farm. At twenty
Thousand feet, the clouds below seem like
Huge white and gray floating hills. In the
Forward cabin, a small child cannot be
Pacified by the rocking of the airliner as it
Rolls to the desired magnetic heading
Southward. The stewardess moves through
The aisle like a ballerina, smiles and pauses
To straighten my tie, pirouettes and moves
Towards a single chime.
At four O’clock below, another silver
Metallic sheet, beaten out for lift, siphoning
Power from a concoction in Aladdin’s lamp,
Is caught on the arc of the earth. Perhaps, the
Passengers are living vicariously through the
Quaint images dancing on a forward wall. A
Man in a black suit is sitting at a window over
The wing. If he turns towards me, what would
Be the proper etiquette, a simple fist pump or
Shall I salute like a flying ace?
Gone into the clouds flying ahead below me,
Are the passengers awake from a movie, the
Black-suited man calling for another drink?
Did we avoid the coffer, that moment when
Thor’s hammer strikes an iron anvil ejecting
Fire and smoke, that moment when the engines
Break away and tumble, that moment when we
Are burnt out and falling somewhere over all green
Acreage of southern Indiana. Would I, knowing
That growing a set of giant rainbow colored
Wings is impossible, attempt to surf on a
Broken section of aluminum airfoil, using my
Feet as stabilizers? Would I, sliding down a
Sheer-faced glacier, lungs blown out in
The oxygen-diluted air, my eyes frozen shut,
My body collecting bits of frozen water,
Scratch for a handhold before disappearing
In the off-white floating hills?
I close my eyes and imagine riding the “L” train
To Logan Square, hiking the back trails on the
Farm and hearing the lullaby of wind in the trees,
And falling into the breach of stoic perpetuity.
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Featured image credits to Sasin Tipchai on Pixabay
