these little hints, through right-back-atya glass:
the dusk that yawns over clambeds
in quincy, luxury boats tussling
with much more practical vessels. little hints
of island mounds, as time and space surrounds
this jet-engine panorama, a single airline
defying gravity in a pull-up
of percussive propulsion:
and, soon, everyone at gate b7
looks up from their gadgets, strains
to hear the overdue announcement:
flight 718 to kathmandu
will begin boarding, starting with
homesick business class sherpas
and ending with grungy trekkers
who reek of glaciers
that have already melted.
way out there, in the bowels of babylonia,
a critical mass movement
watches uncle scam push dope on a rope
into southie, while the north end
buttons up its dinner jacket, and
the corruption cabaret of beacon hill
urges ducklings
to walk sideways.
we eat it all up
like a peanut butter cup
waiting to bored
a flight to oklahoma.
