i buckled up and sat rigid, not wanting
to cede or incur;
saving my let-loose for layovers
and a mad coursing through airport bowels
fueled by mini pretzels and biscoff.
3,000 miles, peeing just four times,
squatting, quads on fire.
on that last leg, in dread boarding group 7,
my thoughts would not extend past gate C23;
my zombie brain staggered toward the circadian rhythm
time zones tend to fuck with.
after three days, i’m still waiting on reunion.
my head drifts through low cloud cover and occasional chop
with fuddled detachment,
while i hold a child’s faith my feet are steady,
and here solid beneath them.