I’m on an airplane cruising where
light’s too bright to see beyond the windshield
and nobody’s visible in the cockpit  

Five or six of us in a square
sit in wooden kindergarten chairs
sullen, sour, each in his own way
like the waiting room of a doctor’s office  

The silent din of jet engines
thrusts vertically through the others
mostly over their heads as steady noise  

I move to a chair in the back where
some guy in a windbreaker
thinks that he’s Paul Newman  

I explain: It’s quieter here  

He doesn’t object
or call it an intrusion
He’s about to show me
some of his tricks
but I fade as the medicine kicks in      

                      #  

When I awake I’m seven feet tall
All the other kids are small
They’re throwing me a birthday party
of genuine generosity
A doctor with an ophthalmoscope
amongst them stands
prepared to examine my eyes  

I hide in the bathroom   

I end up laid out on a table
The doctor keeps examining my eyes
from every distance and angle   

I’m trying to cooperate
but don’t know what I wished
or what he’s looking for