By Gray Davidson
I meet a man
On an airplane's wing.
That is where our glances intersect,
And draw out lines of focus.
The dispute is when and how far,
To close that mandatory plastic shade.
He studies collision theory, and particles,
I buy an extra seat for my guitar.
His favorite song is The Scientist,
Mine's The Joker.
We should have not been put together like this,
But his daughter is only short years younger,
Than my girlfriend: The Joker.
None of them was a leap year.
We're sailing from a wonderful sunset,
We can see it above the clouds,
Here where the industrial smaug cannot reach.
A flash of green later,
And he no longer cares about a small oval of plastic.
The window seat was mine,
And there was nothing he could do.
I feel a great urge,
To paint his face, after imposing my will
And keeping that window open,
His face turned green, and the rocky eyebrow ridges,
Pulled down like an overbite.
His hair is black, and mine is blonde,
But I might dye it soon…He Won't.
This man's not however,
Like tissue paper, or packing tape.
He's not superficial, nor is he ephemeral.
His work is what drives him, like a raven at the door,
And I hope he someday finds his shadowed sweet Lenore.
But until then,
I offer him a song,
Or two or three, his layover is longer than mine,
But my hair is longer than his,
And I have my guitar.
He accepts, and I play him a lament.
It's called Path.
Then he pulls out his laptop,
And shows me a photo of his daughter.
She was adopted, from India,
And looks nothing like her father might have,
At her age…fifteen.
I wheedle his e-mail address,
And when I get home,
I know it's one o'clock in the morning,
But I send him a photo of that sunset.
I named the photo Path.