I save a seat for silence beside me in the plane;
the chattering ape-boy behind me leans forward,
trying to strangle my neighbor. I smile,
teeth hissing death-wish for lax parental units.
Children are so lovely.
When you and I watch the clouds soar by,
or better yet, envelop us in too-thick love,
we drown a little in our own lungs.
Don’t touch me, oh don’t touch me please.
I have interpersonal rabies.
The daydreamed figures dance like boy scouts,
but they can sell like girl scouts too.
I am almost convinced, though these days
I only buy knives that cannot go in the dishwasher.
And I peel onions bravely.
I try to tell this to the stewardess, that vague distracted girl,
saying “Fly me” with her eyes wide in the commercial.
Now she offers me soda and peanuts with
that dripping, too-congenial smile. I grimace,
Blood sugar level skyrocketing.
Give me no saccharine stranger, please God,
if it is You whose acquaintance I met half an hour ago,
for I thought that You reached out to shake my hand
from a nebulous heaven beyond the window.
Such a firm grip, too.
These days it seems a man will either
snap your hand and splinter your fingers
or treat your knucklebones as eggshells.
Sometimes, Lord, I wonder if You’re listening,
if I could eat my peanuts in peace.