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.