frequent flyer

How often these days I travel. The good trip toward, the bad trip away.
It always puts me out of my head to fly. These trips are always made more tired than I would drive.
The plan at the takeoff tilt.
The heads before me getting smaller row by row, the way the overhead bins suggest converging lines.
There’s something about it that suggests eternity. You could only imagine it in that kind of dentist chair fog, that laughing gas fatigue where nothing really matters, not even how they mean to maim you.
Asleep before it levels off.
Before seatbelts can be removed.
Asleep until you should wake.
These good trips toward. These times when you wake to a better world.