FLYING TO MIAMI

America is under me.

We have been flying high.

The clouds nearby extend

like snowy down across the lovely blue.

The years I do not like to count

are slowly passing by.

The space beyond my porthole is my friend,

and I can watch the sky for miles and miles.

I’ve left my state; I’m stateless now—

I rest and glide on air.

For all I know I’m pretty safe on high.

I think I’ll be okay.

Miami is my stop for now,

and then? Who knows? I guess

I need some sun again.

I long to rest and crave a warmer state.

Has Florida not always been

a precious dream

I prized no matter what?

The trees there used to sway so gracefully . . .

As I recall, the passion flower

often was abloom—

the fragrant breeze

a soothing wave from paradise . . .

I almost feel my body lying there,

and even sense,

beneath my naked back,

a golden beach now stretching far for miles—

but here I’m flying to that place of

sun tan, beaches, dollars and hotels

while this America is under me and waits . . .

I still can change my life.