pax
ONE love, blood, life
Recycled Air
I dream of a man
who travels for business--
a man who looks out airplane windows,
inhaling fifteenth-hand oxygen,
staring at the perfect squares of farmland
like the number four itself,
watching as so much water
becomes so much nameless blue
like a woman marrying
when the rivers run to bays and gulfs,
a man who will not accept a second scotch
because he knows I am waiting
at the baggage claim and he wants
to face me with a back not swayed and a steady step,
straightening his tie and casually reading
the novel he's been meaning to finish,
drumming his fingers lightly on the armrest,
offering a quiet "Have a good one" to the stewardess--
a man who could wrestle a hijacker to the ground
yet breathes recycled air gladly.
I dream of a man
who travels for business--
a man who looks out airplane windows,
inhaling fifteenth-hand oxygen,
staring at the perfect squares of farmland
like the number four itself,
watching as so much water
becomes so much nameless blue
like a woman marrying
when the rivers run to bays and gulfs,
a man who will not accept a second scotch
because he knows I am waiting
at the baggage claim and he wants
to face me with a back not swayed and a steady step,
straightening his tie and casually reading
the novel he's been meaning to finish,
drumming his fingers lightly on the armrest,
offering a quiet "Have a good one" to the stewardess--
a man who could wrestle a hijacker to the ground
yet breathes recycled air gladly.
