Flight Plan (Poetry)

I cannot sleep — and although I can’t be sure
I imagine I’m the only one awake.
There is such a peaceful shush — a gentle tide
of breathing that susurrates — washes through
night’s narrow cabin —
and I listen to its rhythms — envious
of their abandonment — suggesting perfect trust.

I am the self-appointed sentinel left on watch
for the first signs of terminal disaster —
those tiny indications of our doom.
Through the porthole I stare out into
the hypnotic density of darkness cradling us all
and wait for the tremor — anticipating that giveaway
change in the monotony of the engine’s noise —
some whisper to alert my anxious ear.

A novel I’ve been nursing sits unread.
I have tried counting — even praying off and on
for God — I reason logically — must be
somewhat nearer up here in this space-filled ante room.
I imagine him casually leaning in close
to peer at our tiny plane droning through the dark
amused or annoyed at my nagging — my infernal cheek
at involving him — daring to ask for favours at this late hour.

I guess what other passengers might be dreaming of —
strange or happy — the woman next to me gives nothing away —
but for the regular rise and fall of her chest
she could be a waxwork — her face set under dim light
nerveless and nameless.

The man across the aisle has been reading
Queneau’s The Flight of Icarus in paperback —
it rests — spine bent — broken by his knee
like a portent
while he sleeps awkward in his seat
the dribble on his chin edging slow as silver sea foam.

I consider height — the gap between ground and machine
and start another dialogue
hoping He’s still out there and open to a bargain
even knowing once we land I’ll leave
such promises floating in the ether — fear’s toxic cloud
dissolving and disowned.