Atlanta-Brussels, 1997

As unlikely as it may seem, the plane noises its way
      toward the improbable spot
      from which it will roar.
"This is the captain. We are number thirteen."

The descendants of tree dwellers,
      we have seen birds fly, improbably fly
      from branch to branch.
We now sit as
The plane, contrary to my senses, roars--
And lifts itself.
It is not like a bird, not as light as a bird,
      but as fragile. It is as fragile
      but not as light.

The plane has gorged its hollow bones with petrol
      heavier than cousin bird's air.

Now the plane roars, and flies,
      not flapping its filled wings, but
      burning stored fuel in curious furnaces,
      burning the special remains
      of trees tree dwellers would
       have burned. Carbon.

This is an exercise in carbon, complex
      like a document.
This flying house is long like a tube.

In the little card depicting
      the reassuring slides in case of a water landing
I see the seating chart.
It is kin of slaveship drawings.
We are corded aboard. Intertwined.

I have taken my appointed seat
To go to France. To see chalk
       hills of Provence.
To see almond trees in bloom, and the rise
      and decline of my friends.

Now, aloft, we are truly gripped by improbability.
Uncertainty reigns. Take comfort; we are more likely to die
      from a donkey kick than a crash.

Turbulence.

I wish we were there--at the Marseilles airport
      where gypsies in turbans will park their
Mercedes illegally, under the eyes of
      the smoking police.


__
James Bolner, Sr.
Atlanta, March, 1997
©James Bolner, Sr.