Envying Tony Stark At 35,000 Feet

Serene if not for engine-sound we move 

across ten-thousand feet of grey and over      

a tack of fields in seven shades of green. 

In ten hours from now we’ll watch the orange 

leopard orchids sweat by the terminal gate 

pressed down by the heat of Zimbabwe in July. 

But for now we sit and count the miles of sky 

or close the shutter on the too-bright clouds. 

The man beside me is watching Iron Man III. 

I see they’ve cut the plane-crash from the end. 

I look at his face every now and again. 

He’s thirty-five, I guess, and I’m sure 

the three kids, behind us, belong to him.

Streaks of red and gold crisscross the screen. 

Streaks of red and gold crisscross his eyes.  

Maybe that look on his face is envy.  

Maybe he’s wondering what it is 

to fly.