Flight 1935, turbulence
near Tampa, my son, six, asks
Are we almost there?, his little
brother floating between
sleep and nausea. 56 minutes,
I say, battening down
catastrophic thoughts.
His impatience ebbs, eyes
blinking blue and gold,
the search engine of his
mind a whirring casino slot—
jackpot—connection:
56 minutes, he says,
is how long it takes to walk around
the whole country of Monaco, did
you know that? Now—
I have somewhere to go
as this jet rocks side
to side, my astral feet
pacing the imagined
square of a real country,
guided by facts of finitude
and the sweat of
children’s hands.
– Matt Pasca
© 2016, poem, Matt Pasca, All rights reserved
The BeZine 