I do not know if I
am coming or going.
There is a wheezing
woman between the
snoozing man and me,
interrupting my reading ,
her yapping dog, escap-
ing, scampering down
the narrow aisle to the
delight of the squealing
child kicking the seat
of the disapproving,
expiring man gazing
at the covering clouds
layering the horizon,
obscuring New York,
its buildings grasping,
reaching. The dying
man is thinking while
brooding me is realizing
--going or coming--
there is no debating
that hurling above Earth
its axis tilting, its life teeming,
is nothing if not exhilarating.
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