Mr. Will and Mr. Way

after the New York City lightning storm

we were emerged, 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 lightning storm

junkies and hairdressers still haunt Moscow

dodging the electric jukeboxes,

only Roma sparks the 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 Manhattan ions are envious

meanwhile, all night

copilots and stewards in stilettos searched for explosives,

flashlights, harsh whispers, passengers red eyed,

grilling 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

trapped in this drama

another tarnished flight journey

but with Richard Fariña and David Gilmour as my mates,

Mr. Will and Mr. Way,

this determined heart remained unflappable

dreaming of the Great Coliseum,

sipping innocent Italian lattes floating in buttermilk,

as all of us stretched on toward Tel Aviv,

carrying these precious songs of our lives,

older and newer

6/25/18