Just as gin is more potent at 30,000 feet, so are poems. I'm reading a book on a late flight home when every line shakes me, and the quiet man sharing our armrest senses my tears and without saying a word I think he wishes me well.
In the pool, my sister and I float, holding hands in hot summer sun, as if we always have.
The other day I could not remember if the sun rose in the west and set in the east, or rose in the east and set in the west. I know the answer, but some days I question everything I think I know and realize I know so very little.
At the nursing home, I ask the quiet elderly man, “Can I get you anything?”
“No,” he replies, “I’m just waiting for the stewardess.”