By J.J. Tindall
Heaven
Sometimes it hurts
Even in heaven.
Yep: and sometimes
It’s lonely
At a table of seven.
Sometimes the day
Comes in low
Like a rickety
Turboprop plane
Overloaded with bills,
Baggage, blues, bullies,
And yesterday’s news,
Dry engines shrieking
Steadily toward you,
Heaving propellers
Clipping the tree line
Before the runway,
Branch stems
And leaf shards
Festooning
The end
Of the designated
“Low Noise” corridor.
Dreamliner my ass.
Like: an old C-130
Listing, fuming, backfiring,
Skidding off the runway
Left.
Winston Freakin’ Churchill
Over here
Lumbering down the gangway
Grousing about not having
His morning brandy
And cigar and what are
YOU going to do about it?!
Lady Freakin’ GaGa
Over here
Won’t come out of the toilet
Until she gets a Rolls Royce limo
Stocked with bottled rain water
And fresh bougainvillea.
Lady Freakin’ Madonna
Over here,
Baby at her breast,
Wonders if you’d manage
To feed some uninvited
Guests.
This morning apparently
Your head has become
Chicago’s desperately needed
Third airport.
Sometimes heaven
Is an abandoned airport
Or the concept
Of a desperately needed
Third airport
As of yet militantly
Unrealized.
Or a long, empty
Dining table
Polished to a dazzling sheen,
Lovingly set
For one.
Empty of shrieking,
Empty of judgment,
Empty of need.
Sometimes heaven
Is quiet (“a place
Where nothing
Ever happens”),
Secluded, solitary,
Safe, garlanded
With bougainvillea
And the remnants
Of rain.
No guests.
Temporary heaven, hewn
From a hard world,
Like an Amish
Oak table,
Like a Cuban cigar.
Heaven enough,
Heaven begun,
Heaven with a finite
End.
Then you hear
The next sputtering jet
Descend.
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J.J. Tindall is the Beachwood’s poet-in-residence. He welcomes your comments. Chicagoetry is an exclusive Beachwood collection-in-progress.
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More Tindall:
* Chicagoetry: The Book
* Ready To Rock: The Music
* Kindled Tindall: The Novel
* The Viral Video: The Match Game Dance
Posted on July 6, 2015