Where's Saturday?
The poet philosophically muses about the disorientation caused by a trans-Atlantic flight. The plane adrift in clouds, a fast-forward night, a Saturday lost forever.
Way back when, men ruled the globe
pole to pole through Greenwich
along a route invisible–
set watches, sundials, drums to agree
upon “Today.”
Crossing their rule, our sixteen-hour flight
leaves Friday, to arrive Sunday.
Go figure.
En route meals arrive at such odd hours
only breakfast comes announced
by cereal. Lunch or dinner?
I remove headphones
to ask.
Window shades block out the stagnant thick
of a fast-forward night. Others sleep.
I rest.
I would fail a standard mental status test—
How can I be oriented in place or time
in cloud-drift skies that arc vast seas
when already it may be
Tomorrow?
