Flying

If you leave a piece of your soul on every plane you board. If your soul is still making the rounds, city to city. If you are in the vents turning on and off and in the flat blue carpet. If your big soul, waking at home away from those metal tubes, is one bit nostalgic. Is one bit left behind. Carelessly abandoned. And your fear of flying is one bit, times your number of flights, nostalgia. Reshaped in the spaces between the crammed carry-ons. Here to there. There back. How many times you fly and nothing crashes. Some of you retired in a desert or a scrap heap. Some of you transatlantic. In the trade winds. Scattered. Riding for no fare but still not free.