This is not a poem about flying. Nor dance. Although some say dancers can fly. When you’re sitting on a tarmac waiting -- at length! -- for a plane to take off, your thoughts may dance around just what is about to happen -- or could happen. Your book and your music and your impatience to be gone can’t totally mask whatever it is that’s happening in the luggage hold below, some weighty imbalance that’s caused your flight to be delayed -- twice -- the workers just doing their jobs, moving suitcases and adding sandbags -- sandbags? -- to make the plane achieve whatever stasis it needs to get off the ground. Our safety is the most important thing, she tells us, in the same voice she’ll eventually use to instruct us in the choreography of how to buckle our seat belts and use our cushions as flotation devices -- in the unlikely event of an emergency over water. Waiting seems to feed the imagination, although there is little water between Charlotte and Atlanta. Although right now it seems the unlikely event is that we are ever going to leave the ground.
You know what? A little Frank makes everything better -- let's ask him along.
Once I get you up there where the air is rarified / We'll just glide, starry-eyed / Once I get you up there I'll be holding you so near / You may hear angels cheer 'cause we're together