“Peekaboo”

There’s a little guy in the seat

in front of me who wants to play

peekaboo from SFO to XNA, two

hours and forty-five. He doesn’t

know flying is cherished alone

time, when distractions evaporate

into the thinness that is 35,000-foot

air, when something akin to poems

come off my fingertips. When

his piercing scream slices through

my ear buds and 40 – year old rock

songs it’s not that he doesn’t know;

he doesn’t care. And why should he?

I’m playing peekaboo with words that

smile tolerantly but want only to be

left alone. After a moment’s distraction

I poke my face again over the seat,

trying to coax witticisms and clever

imagery to focus on me, me, ignore

my slobbery word choices, germy

turns of phrase, and do nothing but give

their full attention. I am, after all,

the center of all things.