Journeys Poem by anais vionet

We plan, organize, gather and pack,
we fly - what liberty is this - to fly
like a weapon on the edge of heaven.

Having no power to do it ourselves
we trust security, the silver whirligig,
and the immutable laws of thrust and lift.

Looking down at clouds, near the speed of sound
"Yes, I'll have the pretzels, please, and a sprite."
aviating thru the night, a few silent, blinking lights
wedged up in the stars to those stuck in slow cars.

We land with a bump, and reverse engine thrust,
remaining in our seats until signs are revealed
we then become the many-headed impatience
to exit, to rush - for the baggage we trust
made the journey with us.

Oh, quick, grab a cab, catch a bus
The grumpy, disheveled six of us
we weary travelers thus
were returned from vacation,
to a near dawn New Haven.