Poem 34: Airplane Spied in the Night Sky

Compost crock pot in hand, I turn
to the house, look up over the garage
and see lights blinking, passing
through the constellations of stars above.
Up there, people are changing locations,
moving through time zones, looking
out their window and maybe seeing
the glint of snow on the hilltops,
the dark flat creep of rivers.
Maybe they have briefcases, laptops,
cell phones. Maybe they rest or order
a drink. I wonder about hotel bars,
about how once, at such a bar
in Washington D.C., a boss offered
me a drink, described me to his friend
as "one of his expenses." Or another,
on Beacon Hill, where I bought a Manhattan
for a Senator who told me about
counting votes and working the floor
for gay marriage. Maybe they turn away
from the window. Maybe there's nothing
out here to see. I'm headed back
to the kitchen, a dish towel
over my shoulder.