At last we wrest ourselves from gravity’s firm grip
And hurtle upward in our magic flying chairs.
The world expands.
Ant-sized creatures turn tiny switches,
Illuminating the place we just left like fireflies.
Bladders press against belts buckled low and tight.
Strangers brush limbs and stretch backwards into each other’s laps
without embarrassment or apology.
Reasonable standards plummet
to new depths–People magazine and snack packs and Bridezilla–
Because, now jaded,
Teetering in a tin can six miles off the face of our planet seems unremarkable.
The hours must be whiled
by any means necessary.
**Many thanks to Louis C.K. and last night’s flight for inspiring whatever that was.