At the Airport

At the Airport

The eastern sky

is clearly on its best behavior,

but like a smiling child

holding some precious breakable thing

behind his back,

the western horizon

has conjured a few white clouds

to conceal the single dark one

floating solo,

taking its time

deciding what it wants to become.

Like a large black period

it punctuates the calm indifferent ocean of air,

making a statement

that doesn’t require my approval.


I’ve never worried about the sky

or second guessed its ability

to hold up its sun,

enormous, floating,

destine to shine—

billions of years of practice

making perfect

the grand choreography of stars and moons,

the effortless way they avoid collision

with an audacity so large

I would send my own young son

into that sky,

smiling, breakable,

destine to shine.



DeMaris Gaunt



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