Airport Blvd.

by Matthew Leger

4 a.m.: a blithe plane overhead
hushes the grasshoppers. Humiliating. 
2 cigarettes in the pack, coming down

I wonder if nerves flicker when the switch
is flicked: that second it takes for landing 
gear to wilt out. I can see carnal 

visions in the pilot's eyes, canals
steered defiantly away from the marshes
of spectacle that will emerge from dirt

should 200 souls resign to the margins 
of a black box. The pack is empty now.
The grasshoppers have received word:

landing gear was deployed. They celebrate.
I am envious of all with plans, gloating 
backup protocol, failsafe levers, liabilities. 

Coming down at 4 a.m. & the night sky is 
a hangnail. Jaw-dropped stars, antennae 
crescents under boot. Humiliating.

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