The President Flies Over
Aloft between heaven and them,
I babble the landscape—what staunch, vicious tress,
what cluttered roads, look at those slow cars. This is my
country as it was gifted me—victimless and vast.
The soundtrack buzzing the air around my ears
continually loops ditties of eagles and oil.
I can't choose. Every moment I'm awake,
aroused instrumentals channel theme songs,
speaking
what I cannot.
I don't ever have to come down.
I can stay hooked to heaven,
dictating this blandness.
My flyboys memorize flip and soar.
They'll never swoop real enough
to resurrect that other country,
won't ever get close enough to give name
to tonight's dreams darkening the water.
I understand that somewhere it has rained.
By Patricia Smith
eightychoices.
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