Getting There

All the stuff we

had been heaping next

to our suitcases for days

planning places to stay

already tasting ahead to summer fruit

            were piled into the boot

 

And then we were winging

airborne over darkening continents

sleepless, holding hands

under those blue airline blankets

watching a faint horizon glow

come up over Africa

 

God, you said, can you

smell the trees, trace paths

animals make to morning waterholes

 

I couldn’t because they were collecting

remains of our lumpy omelets

 

And then we were inside a cloud

forever and forever holding hands under

blankets, down, down incredible down

so much cloud and at a hundred feet we

swung into that gray dawn, wheels down

bumping, people clapping and outside through

the mist, I swear your fingers told me

 

It’s OK.  The animals are waiting

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© Johnmichael Simon

2009

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