Flight 4533

By Carl Boon

Here we go screaming across
the Pennsylvania sky,
Latrobe below, or Altoona,
and the moon never moves.
That might be Erie to the north—
a town of shopping mall lights
and glows of open garages,
people down there on a Friday night
going to bed, going down
on each other, filling gas tanks.
The lake’s another mass of sky,
grayer, going nowhere. You
in Ashtabula are lucky to have a boat,
a thing to moor when storms
come, a thing to decide.
All you people down there
on the other side of the clouds
inside Cleveland, not dreaming it.

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Carl Boon

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