Forty-two minutes and forty-two thoughts
go flowing right through me
like some sort of backseat Bernoulli.
Liftoff becomes another destination,
another trip I'’ve forgotten –
the tickets now lost or thrown away.
And only the endearing memories
stick to melodies
like dryness to paint –
ringing in hollow halls
of yearways ever saved.
Time signatures,
signed stubs of melancholy days
that seemed so important
but by departure had that taken away.
Somewhere,
white,
awash
across the Missouri nightscape,
my fortunes lay
in places long enough,
and routines realities do make.
Lost friends are just connections that fade away.
Occupations are just anecdotes to pacify your days
and don’'t answer the eternal questions
of suburban serenity –
the questions that pervade,
forty-two times in a day,
of pent-up, packed-up expressions –
realist paintings,
bought, and then stowed away,
that tell the story too perfectly –
                                              maybe
                                                        may be
                                                                   may.

12/28/2004

Author's Note: Written on the forty-two minute flight from St. Louis to Kansas City.

Posted on 12/29/2004
Copyright © 2024 Daniel Peterson