Flight Is What Was Promised

Flight is what was promised. Instead, my shoes rubbed my palms raw. Light and clay deliberately crossed. Instead of wings — strapped into climbing crampons. Flight is simple, you just have to take off your shoes And spread the numb feathers of your back. Don't get down if your football boot comes unglued. It's a sort of guilt that pulls you into flight, That while you're on the ground, not paired up with the wind, You look down, where a flying spinning top flickers. Look closer, there you are, in a boot, on the pavement, One step, one soaring, leaving a tuft behind. There'll be a time you set free from the dusty captivity. One last time the shoe will touch the roads. There'll be a time that, believing, down on one knee, You'll pull the shoelace with a pleasant thrill…