Requiem for a Soaring Moment

It shouldn’t be this peaceful up here…
I am in a small seat in a big metal box at approximately 32,000 feet above the ground,

Which, in itself, is a rather ridiculous sort of concept-
Man was born with two legs and two lungs, addled mind and tender heart… and no wings.
We were never meant to fly, and yet we wanted to, we need to,
So two brothers with a bike shop and no respect for the “impossible” built a glider,
And one thing led to another,
And now we file into our great metal boxes that weigh many a ton and are propelled by fire,
Griping about delays and “gate rape” and seats in upright and locked positions,
Like it was no big thing to soar anymore…

At this point, we’re somewhere over the Midwest-
Twice an hour or so removed from the West Coast and my ocean,
From when I boarded with one more carry-on and a little more clarity than I’d come home with,
Plus three more and three again into the future until my Return to Normalcy (whatever that is),
And below my panoramic gaze, all the fields are sorted into sheets of simple geometry-
Mainly circles and squares, but if you pay attention, you might see a swatch shaped like Pac-Man.
And, well, from this height, all those people down there just seem so small,
And their problems don’t feel quite so terrifying or so “impossible”,
But up here, the scene is not nearly so serene…

Not when the guy in the next seat is balancing five budgets,
And owners of strained bladders are climbing over best friends and complete strangers
So they can join the lavatory line presently composed of two suits and a pair of jeggings,
Not while stewardesses batter unoffending arms with drink carts like they were stubborn turnstiles
And a baby is crying- dependable as the sunrise, that one- but the kid can’t help itself and
Besides, the plane itself is rumbling with the dull roar of engineering achievement-
That, and the sheer forces of nature and physics taking their best shots at this insult to birds…
How the fuck did we get here, Orville, and how the fuck are we not free-falling?

Meanwhile, I’m curled up in my cramped corner of this flying metal box,
Working on a research paper about the ancient Minoans and
Working on the lyrics of what might turn out to be a pretty nice song someday, and I’m
Working on letting go,
Working on using the past tense while moving toward the future,
Working on complex overanalysis of every word she said and all the things she never will, while
Working on making myself a better person as I’m
Working on making myself feel better about the person that I am…

And then I breathe out, look out toward the horizon to see that the world’s taken a rosy tint,
A smaller box shoots off, Pacific-bound, leaving a thin white stream to lilt over the mountains,
And I find that we’ve flown into the foreground of a sunset,
And it is beautiful…

Then the sun keeps heading west, and we keep heading east,
Pink fades to violet fades to dusk as peaks give way to parking lots…
It’s funny- how the earth’s moving a hundred times faster than us, but we’re the ones in a hurry,
So we can get out of this box and go back to our prisons, back to our duties and back to the hunt,
Back to business, back to the daily grind, back to the uncertainty of solid ground under our feet,
And into the future, to all of the hope that comes with it and the love that it may bring…

But or now, as we delve deeper into this good night,
I’ll set aside my textbooks, tune out the noise and discomfort,
And I’ll look down at the shining city lights and see them from the sky, see ‘em from my eyes,
And not just this flying metal box…

And I can already hear the opening notes of a melody,
Composing chord progression like a sunset,
Writing this Requiem for a Soaring Moment…