Going Back to Hell (2)

The plane pivots on its wheels, on the runway, like a cannon butt pointing south. At once we are in the air, lifted, and the sun makes a shadow of our plane on the clouds, a cartoon-plane, and the sun makes halos around the plane, round rings of rainbows: we are in the bull’s eye. And below, the cranes by the shipyards are perched like long-necked dinosaurs, the homeless stirring in the dark beneath, their senses battered-dead, still alive.

The Earth is a map of wrinkled brows and tufts of hair, holes filled with gray and blue, pock-marks made by man. We are inside the shadow of the cartoon-plane and we are in the real plane, too. We carry on the currents a massive metal bird at the height of the horizon, mountains our play-things, the snow on the ridges just for show, made from foam, ours for the taking, hours before the show.

About pinklightsabre

William Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
This entry was posted in humor, travel and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Going Back to Hell (2)

  1. dcardiff says:

    Hi, if everybody could see the homeless as you have, perhaps there would be more generosity towards them. A smile and a hello costs nothing, a coffee costs very little, a sandwich costs a little more. A little is a lot to somebody who has nothing.



    • pinklightsabre says:

      Hi Dennis – I really appreciate your note, and I agree. Thanks for taking the time to put “pen to paper.” Best my friend, – Bill


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