#62 Kevin Brophy ‘The many ways of flying out of here’

You could join the passing angels at night.

You could transform into an eagle at midday.

You could be taken by the flying doctor

To join others thinking about mortality

In rows of restful, beeping beds.

Or you could fly, shakily, out to a holiday destination

In a single propeller plane too light

To puncture a cloud. 

You could jump on the blue and silver 

Mail plane and lie down with the parcels, 

your head on the many letters of the lonely.

You could be taken by several planes

On a hopping journey to a school in a city

Where you might find yourself at night

Dreaming of a red dirt airstrip in the scrub

Lined by plastic cones and termite mounds

Just outside a happenstance of homes that you remember

                  Felt like home.