The alps of airport security––
slow steps like summitting Everest,
dragging gear as our own sherpas––
I’ve seen laid low.
The valleys of expense––
fees, costs, contracts,
numbers involving commas instead of periods––
I’ve seen lifted up.
I’ve seen crooked roads––
that normally take days or weeks
to wind through––
straighten like an interstate.
All to bring you home.
These dirt ruts have become steel rails––
path and course set and cannot fail
to make the destination at line’s end.
Trains are supposed to run on steel:
rails shaped to convey the grooved wheels.
Reduced friction means more efficiency.
Internal pressure keeps tires taut,
like steel wheels, while driving roads fraught
with potholes and roadkill, asphalt and dirt.
Flat tires can conform to the tracks
and seem for a time to deflect
the friction grating against the wheel within.
Deflated can’t defer the plain
fact that tires are not put on trains––
we are made for gravel roads and highways.
The quadragenarian sickness
paralyzed more than two legs––
“I have none to help!”
These waters are stirring,
moved by no mere mythic angel––
“Do you want to be healed?”