Was it the thunder that retracted my wings
and made me dive headfirst
and land on this tourist’s chair,
without feathers watching highway signs pass?
I see faces, hazy with light, that extend through
tinted glass and hear voices, monotones
whizzing past, the trees, carbon copy
monuments blur into the landscape.
Between exits and stopovers on 95,
The driver announces historical landmarks,
“Off Powhite Parkway is Magnolia Grange,
plantation named after the floral trees.”
He plays “Biloxi Blues” on nine-inch monitors
scattered between rows, a movie about a writer
who joins the military and complains about
Mississippi’s heat, how it’s “Africa hot.”
The sun drops like I dropped, but where it lands
I’m not sure, maybe Nara Japan
where Buddha welcomes the day
and unenlightened ones walk through his gates,
But here the moon introduces darkness, brags
It’s the only natural light.
Synthetic beams hover, giving everyone
an angelic glow,
and soon my destination isn’t important.
My eyes fall slowly, gradually the plumage returns
And I become seraphic, feet covered, grateful for my wings.