Mr. Will and Mr. Way

photo  courtesy of Google

hours after a New York City lightning storm,

we at last emerged, stranded in Roma,

while Celine’s lost in somewhere Miami

Zurich’s still up for grabs,

and Harry and Su remain confounded 

regarding any chance for takeoff

after that New York City lightning storm

grounded junkies and hairdressers haunted Moscow,

and then only visions of Roma 

could spark the imagination,

with its language of song,

with its sweet intonation of ciao

mixed with the elastic rush of get-away syllables

and hands articulating truth,

even Manhattan icons are envious of

meanwhile the all night flight,

copilots and stewards in stilettos searched for explosives,

flashlights, harsh whispers, passengers red eyed,

authorities grilling a loud mouthed

two-bit second string shortstop ball player

on his way to Milano,

wired on energy drinks,

backwards Marlins baseball hat concealing his Klan crewcut,

yellow-toothed mouth unzipping language uncouth,

boisterous like the reptiles vomiting all over the White House

and at 37, 000 feet the sky laughed back at us

pinned to our seats,

forced to endure

this miserable drama,

another tarnished journey through European air

but with Richard Fariña and David Gilmour 

as my bandmates,

Mr. Will and Mr. Way,

my heart remained unflappable and hopeful,

dreaming of the Spanish Stairs

sipping sweet cinnamon Italian lattes, 

as we survivors whisked on toward Tel Aviv,

embracing these precious songs of our lives:

the oldies and those yet to come 

Rome/Port St. Lucie

6/25/18