Thoughts As I Circle George Bush International Airport

As William Gibson said of "soul delay,"

I feel a tether to my heart unspool

And trail behind me. It seems strange to say

I'm homesick for Toronto, but a fool

For it and those who live there I've become,

And no return in soon enough. I find

I may regain my equilibrium

If I can simply keep these things in mind:

Mere days and three more plane trips stand between

Me and reunion, and it's so that those

From whom I've parted (though their lack is keen)

Are truly not. So as the distance grows

And Houston's sunset now fills up my sky,

It's only happy tears that fill my eye.

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In Which I Sneak A Sonnet From Seat Fourteen

A brand new pencil's just a silly thing,

But it can bring such happiness! Fresh, sharp

And smelling so of wood. I gladly cling

To simple pleasures such as these, apart

From my familiar hominess. My hand

Curls round it, a new friend, so like the old

And well-used ones I left behind -- that grand

And horrid rush to be on time. Behold:

'Tis here and waiting for me, wearing down

In service of these lines. I'm ne'er alone

Though far from those I love (for here they frown

On use of tech that links us), if I own

Or have a pencil handy, I can call

Upon the thought of you, my one, my all.

In Which A Warning Is Whispered

Be careful, oh, if you ask for your space,
For those who really love you will accede
To your request, e'en though more than a trace
Of pain is theirs. Real love gives what you need
If it trusts in your word. So thus to me
It's happened: earnestly a plea is made,
And earnestly believed and honored, see,
Despite the private tears. And as I'm bade,
I've backed off, promised so to calmly wait,
And, waiting, tried to go about my days
With bravery, then suddenly -- too late --
I find I've lost what most I'd deeply praised.
The accusation's laid down at my door:
Desertion and indifference, the score.

In Which I Channel Billy Pilgrim

I do not feel that I am really here.
A flash occurs, and I am lost in space
Or time. So vividly another year
Dwells in my brain I'm not sure in what place
I'd find myself if I could know for sure.
In Boston I once lived and worked and walked,
And in the next-door universe I stayed.
Last night, in dreams, in Bethlehem I talked
With Donna; all this morning I have strayed
Back to that town where I have never been,
Then home to houses that I never bought
But looked at while I chose the one I'm in.
It's not that I'm unhappy where I am
But somehow all this day has seemed a sham.

In Which I, Too, Feel I Am Getting Older

A party girl I've never really been.
I'll go out now and then to see what's new,
But generally I'm the type who's seen
Off in the corner, a good friend or two,
Sometimes a small crowd, list'ning to my tales
And telling theirs. But last night found me out
In noise among the hip-hop crowd. Details
Don't matter overly. We had to shout
To be heard, and the tunes were all the same,
Some chanting, thumping bass, an endless drone.
These days, to me, what music's worth the name
Needs more than just a heartbeat. On my own
I pine for something somewhat more complex
That makes imagination stretch and flex.

In Which I Whistle And Scratch A Backstay Just A Bit

My sails are hanging limp, empty, I guess.

I drift in doldrums I have never known

Were on this map. I really must confess:

Sometimes it sucks to be here on my own.

My schedule's changed; a one-day difference

Should not affect me so - I'm at a loss

To find another cause for this real sense

Of stasis, though. Oh, soon, something must cross

My path to wake and stir me. Once, of old

Did sailors whistle, scratch backstays to bring

The wind that moves them onward, I am told;

A superstition to which I might cling

Were I not where I am. Wyoming wind

Is worse than the ennui by which I'm pinned.

When It Rains I Can Pretend I'm Camping

My house has metal awnings, front and back.

So when it rains, the water has a voice.

I sit beneath them, listen to the clack

And clatter of the droplets. Happy choice

It was, to build them on. All that ribbed steel

Is like a camper's roof. When I was young

And slept up in the bunk on trips, I'd feel

And hear drops inches from me. How I've clung

To memories like these as time has passed.

Now it's just me, my patio, cigars,

A border collie and the great contrast

Twixt grey skies and green yard, and passing cars -

But their noise is drowned out by all the rain's

Metallic noises on the awnings' planes.

In Which I Crane My Neck And Wait For LRO/LCROSS To Tell Me More

Outdoors at night, where do we always look?

Into the sky; the moon is shining there.

I'd be there now were wishing what it took,

But just one girl can wish, but never dare

The aether on her own, nor go so far

(Two hundred thousand miles in airless cold).

It takes a civ'lization's works, as our

Space program's done, to reach what we behold

As indirect light from our sister stone,

Explore its peaks and valleys, craters, plains.

No part of it can yet be called our own,

No matter what our flag, fragmented, claims.

The first moonwalk was not long ere my birth.

I'm 39 and we're still just on Earth.