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.