How could you want an aisle seat, even with those long legs?
A mile-and-a-half below my wide-eyed rapture and aching ears, the tonic morning rush hour is a glittering vein feeding the heart of a fool's gold city I never really knew. Sticky pines stitch together the tobacco fields with their drafty drying barns. If you lean in, you can still hear yesterdays echo their ache through the wood rot rafters and long-abandoned briar nests: dawn's humid dove songs and the spiced young summers when laugh lines left after the punchline and I wasn't afraid of wasting film in my papa's tired Nikon. The land's presser-foot patchwork leaves the page with brushed acrylic edges, and that is when I see the sea - that big blank blue that could break any one idea of infinity.
But, no... of course, you are correct. Enjoy your magazine and ginger ale, I suppose?