Slap some wings on me
And I’ll fly easier, thirty thousand feet
Above the ground of dusty shoes.

Seen from above, the San Francisco fog
Has flattened out and spread across the state.
Rivers, peaks and plains

Form the features of its airbrushed terrain.
Suddenly, green land appears,
Sliding underneath a broken coast of fog.

I hold my breath and say a prayer.
Superstition is reflexive; earnest pleadings
Bring a sense of calm as I commend my soul.

The pitch of apprehension fades
When I notice that the air is stale, the quarters
Cramped. Next time, I’ll take the train.