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.