A Pilot You Said…

What did you want to be when you grew up?  I asked the furrowed brown brow of the city bus driver. the sweaty smells of a days distress wafting through the windows only slightly cracked..what did you want for, what did you wish? how did you think you’d wear your hair and would orange still be your favorite color? hanging brightly suspended beneath your ears on earrings made of gold and bronze? What did you dream, what did you wish for as you laid awake at night the sheets mummifying your tired body while your eyes gazed past the ceiling and stars into the future…

a pilot you said. to soar the clouds. fluffy stuff made of magic and miracles. connecting between pieces the most serene sunrises and somber sunsets…the sky the vast surrounding force of emptiness that left you breathless panting for more…to fly like the crows outside your bedroom window waking you from the dreams in the early morning hours. reminding you to put your feet on the ground and hit the pavement;

there were jobs to do and money to make. you can’t build a life on dreams once told. circling the city we drive. i miss my stop to hear you talk the voice of a distant past rising with the noises of traffic hour and the pauses of breath tuned in time with the yellow dot stop light. you know this space well – and yet you’d rather be exploring the outer reaches of the atmosphere. not here, not on the streets but in the air. steering instead a massive bus with wings…





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