Getting Around Town

 

 

 

It was late morning when she first forgot where she lived,

And deep November in northern Vermont

and the car heater was still working;

Puffing prodigiously on the way to town.

Crossing her eyes with desperation in the post office

She turned away from the simple white paper with cold black lines

And drew a rabbit on the Formica table

Lying like a morticians tableau

Below her.

 

She turned her head very slowly as an owl does

(Not disturbing the hump in her spine),

When wondering who you might be,

Her owl eyes clicking

A slow semi circle to the left of the line

Of mailers,

Waiting to post money or love,

Hate or anger,

Give or take,

She was looking for who she was.

She would be any of them

In the blink of an eye, if they would let her.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Choosing

 

 

 

It was at thirty thousand feet when she decided

It was all right to die without making a sound.

The Boeing 767 was throttling through air pockets

And the flight attendant was flashing her large white teeth

When the unplanned descent began.

Strapped into her blue, contoured seat

Hair electro sized to the overhead bin

Eyes widened by lift, thrust and drag

Gone askew,

She free fell into her own reality.

 

She wondered if it would hurt,

Then she thought of her children.

She wondered if there would be any remains

For people to speculate on,

Or her cell phone with final call lists.

She thought of him and imagined

Sadness like a tea bag on his eyes.

 

Flight was so appealingly lifeless

As if she were halfway between inspiration

And exhalation.

Round circles in the side of the plane

From which to examine the world,

And seat belts to control reflexes of any kind.

Food brought in controlled portions.

It was easy to die at thirty thousand feet

For ten seconds