Hijack
The bluebird springs out of the black forest clock
singing and ode to 4 a.m.
I make myself dry toast and topple out of his apartment
like a door off its hinges.
all before my early flight.
I wait for your announcement
and I realize
I am too real to be a ghost.
So I don’t fasten my safety belt.
I won’t be needing it.
I have no envelopes full of death-powder.
No digital bombs.
There are no mug shots of girls with icy eyes
they all have eyes like mine:
red: the negative.
Pilot, from beyond the silk curtain,
I watch you switch buttons on and off,
pull chords and plug others in with a sigh.
Soaring with all the calmness
of a doctor before a tumor of mourners.
You gave me a complimentary pin,
your aviator for a day.
I stuck my thumb
and I gasped at my own clumsiness,
my own swamp-child hair
and once you realized who I was
I took hold.
We crashed, of course
and from under the wing, I watched
the survivors slide down onto the glittery Vegas strip
and you, mon capitan,
shook your head and rolled over.
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