Wheels leave the tarmac and there’s that
butterflies in your stomach feeling
You don’t want to hear another
bullshit poem about the houses getting
smaller, that’s been done enough times already
and it’s no longer captivating,
not at all
This is my city this is where I was born
here I am in the sky I can see the whole
city, get over yourself.
The woman in the seat next to me
is putting enough sugar in her coffee to
euthanize a small rabbit.
I wonder what she’s compensating for.
This probably wasn’t the right time, not
the right person, not the right time
What would I do if I could fly without landing?
Want to read more like this? Subscribe to the magazine to get three print issues per year full of exclusive stories and poetry.
Sarah Groustra is a writer from Massachusetts.