landing in a sleepy field
like Saint-Exupery
goggles pushed up
off glassy eyes
the parents, the baby
all straining
to see our faces
in the landing lights
of the carpeted entryway
we wrap our robes
about us
accept hugs kisses
and explanations
as they are
we pour coffee
and sandwiches
and catch up
as the engine creaks
and tires settle
in the driveway
There’s a jazzy edge to travel
kind of a riff of improvisations
compromises that flex
like shoe leather
on a bandstand
vanish like clouds
and reappear like bruises
during the waiting
as yesterday’s orderly
practice scales resolve
into ad hoc dissonances
and alternate
harmonies and excesses
and the term
bust a move
has new meaning
for a sore ass.
blind locomotive
dragging cars
and passengers
on rigid steel
toward
the insistent bridge
words tumble
in rows
stacking
broken pencils
crushed against
an anvil
insistent time
pushing all
before it
toward
the vertical
sky
