Overhead
I
take my evening walk around seven,
and
see the plane high above following its path to LAX.
The
engine is subtle, a meager rumble for such a big machine.
Who
is in that thin cylinder, I always wonder?
Hovering
over my neighborhood for a minute.
Coming
from where to here for what and why?
Do
the passengers look out their windows,
do
they spy my street, my roof, briefly?
And
wonder about us down here, too?
There
they are.
Here
I am.
Walking,
not flying.
These
ways we convey ourselves.
I
pass by neighbors on my stroll.
Some
have dogs, some don’t.
Some
say hi, some don’t.
I
always try to engage because you should.
Those who don’t might as well be in a tube in the sky.
Chris Callard
Chris Callard lives in Long Beach, CA. His poems have appeared in Ariel Chart, Spillwords, Chewers by Masticadores, Doublespeak, Oddball Magazine, Beach Chair Press, Five Fleas Itchy Poetry, The Writing Disorder, and One Sentence Poems. His short fiction in Ariel Chart, The Gorko Gazette, 10 by 10 Flash Fiction Stories, Maudlin House, Friday Flash Fiction, Bright Flash Literary Review, Gemini Magazine, and Flash Fiction Magazine. His work has been nominated for Best of the Net and Best Small Fictions. He can be found here: https://callb3.wixsite.com/collectedworkschrisc