The Thickness of Air
Jan 20 2010


The plane came down hard.
With a great blistering squeal,
the mushy give
of rubber,
muffled gunshots
as tires popped.
Everything rattling, like a second-hand car,
only slightly less stressful
as when we took-off.

They say wheels up, wheels down
are the risky parts.
But it’s the 5 hours in between
I fidget and shift, belted-in,
worrying.
The soft light, the soothing drone
the curved cramped cabin,
that will open like an elevator door
on a whole new vista,
as if a team of fork-lifts and winches
had trundled in new scenery,
while we waited back-stage, in a sealed room
breathing stale air.
A generically modern capsule
of aluminum and plastic,
it is crammed with strangers in flip-flops and sneakers
in the unnatural intimacy of seats
bolted to the floor.

The atmosphere to earth
is like the film of water on a wet basketball.
And we, a mere molecule
suspended there.
Even infidels and heretics
believe in gravity.
But at 30,000 feet
the thickness of air,
the principle of lift,
the thrust
of hot escaping gases
seem far more miraculous.