Sights

I sit by my gate

and watch the endless

airport windows:

the sun pausing

its descent, the clouds

blushing from too much persimmon. 

 

My eyes don’t grow 

heavy until the sky 

is slipping 

its eyes closed

in the small oval window

gripping my forehead. 

If I stare hard enough, 

will light peel away

its brooding coat? 

The plane doesn’t know, 

only shakes Night’s shoulders 

clumsily. Wake up, 

wake up.

 

Wake up.

See the slap mark on your cheek?

Let gratitude,

yours, make mirrors

for the people who actually need them.

Reviews

[Dave W.]

Reading this I could hear the plane, that high pitch whir of the engine, the turbulence shaking, and the ground below, well written, thanky ou for sharing.

[Arundass TP]

Windows are doors opened to other side world. Nicely written poem

[Elizabeth S]

Thank you! Really appreciate the review :)