Bodega | Distance

Everyone in this airplane is my family:
the crying baby in the row behind,
the sharp-nailed flight attendant

whose gloved hand folds intimately
over my Biscoff wrapper, the woman
in the aisle seat, hawking her WHAT

husband-ward in its well-worn Brooklyn
accent. He evenly responds, reads
the news as if it will protect us.

30, NOW, she turns to say to the father
who bounces his squalling daughter
on a knee. NO MORE BABIES

FOR US IT’S VERY SAD. And I –
too, childless – watch
the cars inch along

their serpentine highways,
everybody going somewhere – watch
the string of clouds below us

lily-pad me away from you,
toward –

Distance