Mr. Will and Mr. Way

after the New York City lightening storm

they found us stranded in Roma,

while Celine’s lost in somewhere Miami

Zurich’s still up for grabs,

and Harry and Su confound any plans for takeoff

after the New York City lightening storm

junkies and hairdressers still haunt Moscow

dodging the electric jukeboxes…

only Roma sparks imagination

its language of song

sweet intonation of ciao

the elastic rush of get away syllables

with hands articulating truth

while the fat ol sun beckons westward

and even the Manhattan ions are envious

meanwhile, all night

copilots and stewards in stilettos searched for explosives,

flashlights, harsh whispers, passengers red eyed,

dumb two-bit backup shortstop ball player

hustling to Milano

wired on energy drinks

Marlins hat backwards hiding his Klan crewcut,

perfect yellow-toothed mouth language uncouth, unzipped, boisterous like those reptiles vomiting all over the White House

and all night 37,000 feet of sky laughed back at us all

pinned us to our seats,

forced us to endure

entrapped in this drama

another wrong flight journey,

but with Fariña and David Gilmour as my mates,

Mr. Will and Mr. Way,

this heart remained unflappable

dreaming of the Great Coliseum

sipping innocent Italian lattes floating in buttermilk

all of us stretching on toward Tel Aviv

these precious songs of our lives

older and newer

6/25/18