Above the concourse, from a beam,
A little warbler pours forth song.
Beneath him, hurried humans stream:
Some draw wheeled suitcases along
Or from a beeping belt or purse
Apply a cell phone to an ear;
Some pause at banks of monitors
Where times and gates for flights appear.

Although by nature flight-endowed,
He seems too gentle to reproach
These souls who soon will climb through cloud
In first class, business class, and coach.
He may feel that it’s his mistake
He’s here, but someone ought to bring
A net to catch and help him make
His own connections north to spring.

He cheeps and trills on, swift and sweet,
Though no one outside hears his strains.
There, telescopic tunnels greet
The cheeks of their arriving planes;
A ground crew welcomes and assists
Luggage that skycaps, treating bags
Like careful ornithologists,
Banded with destination tags.

Palm-sized and fledgling, a beak

protruding from the sleeve, I

have kept my birds muted

for so long, I fear they’ve grown

accustom to a grim quietude.

What chaos could ensue

should a wing get loose?

Come overdue burst, come

flock, swarm, talon, and claw.

Scatter the coop’s roost, free

the cygnet and its shadow. Crack

and scratch at the state’s cage,

cut through cloud and branch,

no matter the dumb hourglass’s

white sand yawning grain by grain.

What cannot be contained

cannot be contained.

One said to me tonight or was it day 
or was it the passage between the two, 
"It's hard to remember, crossing time zones,

the structure of the hours you left behind. 
Are they sleeping or are they eating sweets, 
and are they wanting me to phone them now?"

"In the face of technological fact, 
even the most seasoned traveler feels 
the baffled sense that nowhere else exists."

"It's the moving resistance of the air 
as you hurtle too fast against the hours 
that stuns the cells and tissues of the brain."

"The dry cabin air, the cramped rows of seats, 
the steward passing pillows, pouring drinks, 
and the sudden ridges of turbulence. . ."

"Oh yes, the crossing is always a trial, 
despite precautions: drink water, don't smoke, 
and take measured doses of midday sun,

whether an ordinary business flight 
or a prayer at a pleasure altar. . .
for moments or hours the earth out of sight,

the white cumuli dreaming there below, 
warm fronts and cold fronts streaming through the sky, 
the mesmerizing rose-and-purple glow."

"So did you leave your home à contrecoeur? 
Did you leave a life? Did you leave a love? 
Are you out here looking for another?

Some want so much to cross, to go away, 
somewhere anywhere & begin again, 
others can't endure the separation. . ."

One night, the skyline as I left New York 
was a garden of neon flowerbursts--
the celebration of a history. 

We arrived in the windy city thirty minutes ago,
two hours delayed.
                         No apologies.
Many passengers are missing their connections,
but I opted in for a seven-hour layover
to enjoy the midwestern feel, after all.

Never seen a substitute plane in the US
until today, a generic plane,
with no United Airlines on it.
I tell you, flying in and out of Central PA
                         has its upside.
There’s always material for poetry.

Have you ever heard an airline attendant say,
“We will be delayed
because the plane's computer is telling
                  us that one of its engines
is very low on oil?” Yes, low on oil,
like a car, like something

that needs ground to ground it,
like a motorcycle. And then a technician
comes on board, screws things in,
                  while he’s on the phone. 
Thirty minutes, he’s still screwing
the plane together. By then, I'm saying

the Lord's prayer, the 23rd Psalm,
the 125th Psalm, the Bible. I'm calling on Moses
to part the Red Sea for me.
               I want to grab my husband,
and run, but good old, trusting husband
and comfortable Americans are sitting

there, waiting for a screwed-up plane
the way Americans wait. Silent, staring,
                          comfortably eating a donut,
sipping a drink, unlike me, this Grebo
woman who has seen death over and over.
Finally, the teenage-looking pilot
needs a bathroom break, and he runs

to the restroom. And another 15 minutes,
the tech person leaves. We take off,
                        bumpy, a Canadian plane,
I realize, and now I'm thinking of a lake
where we can land, but the landing,
bumpy, clouds, Lake Michigan, inviting,

but thank goodness, the young pilots forgot
to dump us in its blue foams, Lake Michigan,
            blue, beautiful, and polluted,
but it's still Lake Michigan.
When I grow up, I want to be a fish,
a big blue fish, if I ever grow up.