New York to San Fran

My air route to San Fran –
A flight, akin
To tight rope walking;
Between cities, pegged
On opposite coasts.

New York looks like a silver necklace
Under a wrinkled scarf of clouds.   

I sit in the belly of the whistling jet,

Counting on one hand, arcs
On the ceiling above me, like metallic ribs
Un-caged, cornflower blue mixed indigo.  

And a few inches further up,  

The cabin skin
Grows blisters
From the troposphere’s unconscionable beatings.   

A pocket-sized TV screen
Traces out my route.
I take notes of city names –
Druid Hills, Lancaster, Fredonia, Westfield.
San Francisco comes, eventually.  

The moon, above my dimpled shoulder,

Sparkly white, polished, looks
No wider than
A grain of rice.

To my right, I notice,

A handful of clouds
Bursting into water.  

Underneath the aircraft’s

Bent abdomen, legs folded
Into dark pouches,
Towns emerge, shaped
Like mutant rhomboids –
A beauty pageant: ten,
Fifteen minutes under the limelight
Before vanishing into darkness.

Three hours in,

I drink coffee and spend
A few minutes untangling
Headphones; knotted
Like red shoe laces.

Orange sodium lamps

At a distance, mark borders
Of habitation.
I see, light
Beyond my window screen
Thickening like gravy.
The sky changing clothes –
For somber rejoice.

The attendant announces

We are now
Over Wyoming.
Yellowstone –I say Hello to you, and wave at you
As if you were a rookery
Of innocent school children.

I don’t know what to think anymore.
My mind is out of choices.   

I play Chopin on my iPod,

But the violin mutes.
Sounds get caught in traffic burbles.

The moon, I suddenly realize,

Has sprinted ahead.

The cabin fills up with wheezes

Of the engine’s dramatic hyperventilation;
Its lungs puff up with smoke and vapor.
India,
Comes to mind,
And mulberries.

Drowsy at 11 pm –

Our pilot finally announces
Preparation for descent.
Trays are to be stowed, trash
Emptied out of bowls, seats
Returned to a strict perpendicular.

Perhaps it is time to leave the comfort
Of 30,000 feet above ground –
The quiet company of stars, the foaming clouds,
Stillness of the meditative mind.

Beyond my window, I can almost see

The Pacific’s knobby knuckles.
Feel on my eyes, its citrus breath.

And then the jet spikes

Into an abrupt seizure.
We pray with audible gulps, the lady
To my right, in a bright teal sari
Clutches tightly onto her light-brown rosary.

The first drop, and to my left

San Francisco is waiting.

I smile out wide;

My lip edges curl like tendrils on a trellis.
Excited, even –my dark epidermis.

The second drop, and my belly caves:

That sudden emptiness from gravity’s displacement.
We move closer and closer to the manicured strip
Of pastel phosphorescence –guide lights
Blinking, yawning, chewing.

And we hit the ground with a thud, the final landing.

In San Francisco, at last, I breathe fast –
My heart folds like a careful kerchief.  
Engines pirouette at monumental speeds; their tutus
Swirl, pivot, riot, spin.  
A moaning of wings, follow
Thunderous cackles of metal windbreakers.
The leg wheels sizzle, trachea distends; balls
Of air pulse out.

We taxi to the gate. The crowd

Resumes its usual clamor. Cell phones
Choke from the unbearable weight
Of muted text messages.

I am giddy with happiness.

Overcome, with this feeling of
I made it here,
Finally.

At last, the time comes to leave the plane.

I spill onto a dream.