The circuits that don’t short. The wing doesn’t
drop. The signs that don’t quite fit
stuffed in carry-on bags. The pink knit hats.
The clouds that don’t resist slide
over metal. The flaps don’t fly off.
The police don’t wear riot gear. The rain
doesn’t drown. The baggage that doesn’t fit
in overhead bins and doesn’t get unpacked.
Bookstore price tags still on guidebooks. The passenger
that doesn’t fly, and the pilot doesn’t stop.
The markings that aren’t symmetrical. The weak tea
in plastic mugs. Passenger cabins lit pink.
Sympathetic attendants. The Do Not Walk Here
warnings on the wing. The wings without footprints.
The in-flight maps. Sky Magazines. Motion sickness
bags. The upright tray tables. The ticket stubs
in seat backs. The millions of women who won’t shut up.
Airport security lines that don’t move.
Keri Withington is an educator, poet, and aspiring homesteader who lives in the Appalachian foothills. Her poems have appeared in numerous journals and anthologies, recently including The Wild Word and Dwelling Literary. She has published two chapbooks: Constellations of Freckles (Dancing Girl Press) and Beckoning from the Waves (Plan B Press).