a poem of the corporate wars

I.

The road is not my friend.
Though once the sight of clouds beneath the wing,
Flowing slowly by like a boundless, winter stream
Might have caught my eye,
Now I find the motion of the plane
Reminds me of the growing miles
Between this place and home.

II.

In glass-walled hallways
Where the endless tap of feet
Competes with the rumble
Of a lifting plane,
How easily I might have turned,
Distracted by the lies of strangers
And the promise that each face conceals
A story worth the while to listen.

Now I go my way alone
Enveloped in the rushing sound of thought
And the knowledge that I ought to be
Eight hundred miles away
Before the weary day
Is lost into the night.

III.

At half past nine
I stand and wait,
Overtired at the gate,
And watch a man on channel three
Who tells me where the rain will be
When I land.

Behind me stands an aging child,
Who sags beneath a weight
Much greater than his battered bags,
And once again must loudly say
Why he can't be late,
Although of course there is no chance
That he will leave today.

IV.

At times I wake
To find myself
In distant rooms
Where grim-faced ciphers,
Long since shaped by numbers,
Fight with minds of sharpened steel,
And though I feel the need
To listen to their song,

My focus drifts beyond the walls
To where I know she waits and wonders
If I think of her at all
When the air is thick
With killing blades
And the bodies start to fall.

V.

The road is not my friend,
Perhaps because we know each other much too well,
As once again I try to tell myself
That this will be the last and final push
Across the outer markers,
In a wheels-up, out-bound rush
To find those answers
Best relayed in silence
By a loving touch.