Places that have become me

Poor starling in the B concourse of Logan Airport. You do not
have a laptop. You do not have a cell phone. You do not
have the sky. You have an Au Bon Pain. You have a seafood restaurant
that sells live lobsters to travelers. What a fancy lobster
that would be, who flies first class to Dallas. While you peck
at the carpet as if it's grass, I want to sneak up on you
so softly you believe I've always been there, that I am a tree
and chaperon you as a tree to flight 1872 bound for Charlotte,
so you can fly down the B-10 causeway and show the Airbus
how grace is done. Speaking of things out of place, half
an hour away, if you ignore the speed limit, there's a boat
hanging from the ceiling of the chapel at Babson College.
In this case, I don't want to set the boat free, it's an emotion
in the half glass, half wood, fully beautiful room
people go to speak to God in a circle of chairs, a boat
with recessed lighting, a boat with only the waters
of raised voices to sail upon, a boat that would look good
with a starling at its tiller. I said emotion but it's more
of a sense that heaven has room for our stuff, our boats
and windows, our eyes and the snow I wish had fallen
outside the chapel, in which the immediate sky
is a sky of rescue, a sky of gather two of every creature
that walks or gets lost in Logan Airport and bear them
to a time when trouble is over, this is the Bible
as it is written by this poem. Every large airport
I've been to has had birds in it, only one chapel
I've been to has had a boat in it, this means
our airports are more frequently imaginative
than our worship, and more accidentally cruel. I'm home
now, where starlings and boats are where they belong, I'm the one
out of place if you ask the river, the cows, the coyotes
who come at night, gather their voices into a hoop
and lament, it seems to me, nothing.
Bob Hicok


Bob Hicok

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