Which is worse, taking off or landing.
To a goose under the gun, the latter would
stun the full-bellied flutter of a grand-standing
angel into a heavy sack of flesh and blood.
Thud. So we traipse from plane to plane,
yawning to pop our ears, watching
others come through security checks that stain
the conscience as if they were constantly botching
their mere existence. Now wheel yourself and bag,
slightly panicked, to a bathroom stall
and hear the sounds of the weary jet-lagged
in the stalls around you. You’re human, after all,
down to earth and listening to the choirs
from a bank of howling hand dryers.
Greg Keeler is a poet, songwriter, writer, artist, and humorist. He lives in Bozeman, Montana.1