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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