From the Airplane on the Detroit Runway
A Poem
From the Airplane on the Detroit Runway
The sunset is a muted marmalade
with smoky grape jelly striped clouds
that you view through a giant grate
of silver, wide windows overlooking
us planes and I am staring at you head
on, my caterpillar walkway outstretched
and ready for boarders. But still we wait,
staring at each other, watching time
wash the colors out of the sky.
You are on a layover in the Detroit airport
and decide to buy a muffin from the man
in the bakery who asks you chocolate? apple?
spice? but you land on blueberry and
he and his work partner decide
you should be the boss for the day.
You end up speaking the language
of love poems and mothers —
and your collective lessons on not sharing
the one with the other —
unintentionally making friends as you
naturally seem to do in these situations.
