With the Clouds

I want to be with the clouds.
Not just looking up to them
or hovering over them,
but on the inside
with the vapor flooding my veins.

Shoulders touching a stranger,
an aching neck,
my IPOD playing “Comfortably Numb,”
I stare daydreaming.
No one knows my name
because I only speak to say,
“Sprite, please.”
I like the silence.

530 mph,
34,000 feet in the air,
I’m no longer Adam,
because I don't have to be.

They portray the Arctic,
with the neverending perfect white fields
that stretch over the horizon.
Yet, I don’t feel cold.
I loosen the air nozzle above me,
the cool air flows over my left cheek,
while the window attempts to keep the right side cool.

Who is this fat, white man,
wearing a three-piece suit,
leather shoes with a gold ornament near the toes
beside me?
Maybe a rich businessman
who lives in one of those nice homes
in the Heights that I love so much?
I don’t care.

Instead I dream of jumping free,
opening my mouth
tasting the candy clouds,
inhaling their scent
so I can sweat out it’s odor later.
Lying down naked and unashamed
to sprawl out and squish the cotton between my toes.

This moment,
I get lost in the white.
It clogs my nose and ears
and blinds my eyes.

There’s no wondering if my brother
has been killed yet from a drug deal gone bad,
if my grandmother who I’m too lazy to go see
has died yet from a heart attack,
or if my mom is going to sleep tonight
with dried tears from the mundanity of her day.

Two hours later,
my eyes start to unglaze,
and the dirt squares grow.
Tiny moving dots slowly turn into
the Micro-Machines I played with as a child.
The clouds are now above me
and once again,
they’re untouchable.