My career took place in business class,
Living out of an impossibly small
Roll-on that never saw the hold.
As a perk of this caper, I read novels,
Drank champers and ate
Smoked salmon that I got to hate,
Flew a day and a quarter from Sydney to
Delaware to the maw of corporate HQ, where
They talk a language I’ve guiltlessly discarded.
From London once, all day to the Caucasus
I read and drank the silences from
The empty seats beside me, fore and aft.
That afternoon the pilot banked obligingly
Over Istanbul to balance me above
Coppery glints of minarets and domes.
At darkening India, I fell asleep over
My third novel and dreamt of
Ants at prayers in mosques.
28 January 2008
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