0ut There

Doug Bolling

The man in the 1920s smoking jacket
and argyle socks, a lean eyed
Victorian face, the trim moustache
& brows.

I fly often he says, my soul mate
for the journey.

Each flight a story waiting to be
told, a pinch of plot, a beginning
unless in medias res, whatever
it takes to unfold, grab the
juices awhile.

I look around he says.
Seventy, eighty fellow pilgrims
en route to hell or worse.

Each one has a story hidden
inside the covers, the little
navigators we call neurons.

Look around he says.
See how they show only
a mask, keep so much hidden
like scared rabbits blending
in as the dogs run by.

When they talk they don’t.
Just a passing of words
to keep up the game,
fluff tossed off and
soon forgotten.

As for me I’m unclear
why I keep coming back
for more, twenty, thirty
flights a year just to
pretend I’m on a mission,
a real dude packed up and
ready, the diary full,
somebody out there in
wait mode wanting me
to land, begin the magic
all over again.


About the Author

Doug Bolling's poems have appeared in Connecticut River Review, Slant, Xanadu, Water~Stone Review, Redactions, Kestrel, The Hamilton Stone Review, The Wallace Stevens Journal, Georgetown Review, and Lowestoft Chronicle, among others. He has received several Pushcart nominations and a Best of the Net nomination, and currently resides in the Chicago area while working on a collection. He is a retired English Professor.