Airplane Mode


You’re gone a lot,

Lost on a trip

In your cell phone

I think.

Sometimes for a week

Sometimes for a year.

But usually I don’t see you

For that weird pause

The world takes to breath

In between when

The second hand stops

And starts again.

I can’t help think about

You when you’re not there.

I used to think of

The feeling of grass

Sneaking between our toes

But now all I get

Are glimpses of the

Festering tumor of soap

That is constantly rising

From my kitchen sink.

I don’t visit often enough.

That’s what they tell me.

I don’t visit at all, really.

My mom hasn’t

Seen me in years.

One day, I think,

They’ll accidently send me

Her credit card bill

And the only thing

Staring at me

Will be the inky black eyes

Of the letters that

Spell out the order

For my coffin and services.

I put tickets on backorder

Because I know I’ll

Cancel them when faced

With the thought of

Sitting next to a pile of luggage

While someone hides

In the overhead storage.

Someday I’ll build a plane

To fly me over

All the Houdini business trips

And past the message

On my phone

That tells me I have

Missed three calls

I know I won’t return

Because I don’t like

Being needed like

This.  Maybe my plane

Will take me

To a beach where wireless

Was never invented

Because the architect knew

That bandwidth is the natural

Enemy of white sand

And foamy water.

Where the servers bring you drinks

Filled with your friends.

I’ll build a hut there

With no roof

So I can stay in touch.

Maybe no one

Will come with me

Because they’re already there.

But when I feel inside my pocket

And remember

I forgot

I had a phone,

I feel like I’m already there

And no one else is coming

Because my island is set

On airplane mode.

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