Flight Log

The prop plane tilts a wing
over the luminous blue-black plunge
of Lake Superior, an endless sky
we might disappear into, another wreck
swimming to the bottom. Add a t
and you've got planet. Rhymes
with Janet and nothing else. Plain Jane
without the t. The turn toward Marquette,
late September, sprayed dazzle of endless color
rising above the loose bricks of that small city,
Five overweight suits tighten seat belts
and lean against the tilt. I curl against
the curved womb of the fuselage. If we were
in a cabin in those woods, the six of us,
would we be swapping yarns and sugar-free gum,
confessing our sins, man to man? Whoa,
somebody says. The rest of us cough up
scared laughs, squint out fogged windows—
would anybody want their last look to be
us, locked in, sweating or freezing?
God. Is that the word we cough? Is that
what we call the leaves? Before or after
they fall? The wings right themselves
as we knew they would. Woulda
Coulda Shoulda, that planet we orbit,
dizzy with the luck of regret.

Notes and Corrections: Granite
also rhymes with planet. I once kissed
a girl named Janet. One guy was not
overweight. Somebody looked down
and may have been praying.
The pilot's name was Larry
and he welcomed us to Marquette
and gave us the local time.

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Copyright © 2011 Jim Daniels All rights reserved
from Cave Wall
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission