Of Time and the Kite

when my daughter was young we flew a kite
from her wooden deck, bedroom balcony
she held the string, I watched wind
invisible thing
nearby leaves rustling, flapping
nylon snapping, waiting for release
to soar or sink, ever the question
on a day such as this
the two of us standing there wondering
what does it mean to fly away?
I let go, her twine wriggled through fingers
up and up it went
sun stopped for seconds
our fabric patch covering time

International Flight

Novels tucked in tight seat pockets, cramped legs try to move, little lunges forward, stretching under plastic tray tables.

Some snore, eyes covered like blind pirates, others fixate on movies, their wine breath stale from hours without teeth brushing.

Global travelers, temporary residents sharing armrests, shoulders and knees touching like kids in the back of a station wagon.

Uniformed flight attendants permanently smile as carts collide with elbows, offering tea and coffee to the awake ones, wired from traversing time zones.

Babies cry while parents stare vacantly at lit up red “occupied” signs, waiting for locked body-filled closets that flush.

A map traces the flight, earth flat on a screen. Single white plane over ocean, a planet circling a planet.