My father in the cockpit
on one of his long-haul flights--Sao Paolo,
Tokyo, Milan--watched Earth
scroll past his darkened view,
flickers of light, like candles
glittering through windows
as seen from a car driving past.

He wasn’t up there alone, 
but the dark pressed them on all sides 
as the co-pilot flicked a switch
and the navigator watched their green trail
across the radar. At least
they knew the number of hours ahead
to their destination.

***

This morning I stare out my window.
Grey covers the sky 
like a depressive skin on warmed milk.
A flicker of sun glimmers as the wisps part
but is quickly extinguished. The news
brings food shortages, protests, death tolls and threats.
Every day we sit, stare into our screens,
flying a mile at a time, cocooned,
into the dark.

Charlene suddenly wonders how much of her life
she’s wasted trying to imitate cool, which is what? 
Artfully curly hair flopping over a forehead 
or trendy environmentally hip shoes
or an asymmetrical fake leather jacket
a student called dope or how she looks 
driving a bit too fast, tapping the beat to Def Leopard.

Trying to be cool is like coral absorbing 
poison from seawater, like a fish caught in plastic.
Even now, as she watches the delivery guy
haul eight boxes of bread into a café,
muscles gleaming  in the early sun,
jeans just that right amount loose on his hips,
his eye catching hers as he turns, she wonders 
how long he practiced to perfect that useless swagger.