i am home; i am home.

The sky on this coast is a wholly reassuring blanket of color tonight.
Philadelphia stands now one bookend alone.
I drop the top and let the sticky cool rebaptize me.
This is the sky of childhood.
This is the road home.

After hours of travel with
no blades
no sharps
have two forms picture ID ready
stand here
line up there

passengers ready to turn on each other
noticing the pilot door peephole for the first time
imagining the lanky flight attendant bound and cut
feeling every turbulent bounce as start of plunge

I am home; I am home.
Safe, sound, afraid, exhausted.

A sign on I-95, just north of town, reads
IN NEW YORK CITY ALL OF LOWER MANHATTAN BELOW CANAL ST CLOSED

There is a sickening sense of patiotism
driving flags north at 80 miles per hour
blocking lanes with candlelight vigil
ours is a forgiving God, emblazoned on billboard
MTV shows videos and Gideon Yago wears a tie

We rush toward adolescence
with marathons of Grease and Footloose
Mrs. Doubtfire and Gimme A Break

I can't begin to be a voice.