Aviation

( After Alice Fulton )        
         
I once had reason to fear        
humans in general—          
       
people are people, individual        
as their unpredictable demeanor          
regardless of upbringing          
         
I've experienced them        
in farmhouse pigsties        
to Buckingham Palace—        
often unable to tell a difference        
aside from clothes or conduct.            
         
I once observed various groups        
in a museum:          
         
The elite, social ladies        
with diamonds and emeralds          
capturing the light from paintings;          
         
shining status symbols, sailing        
in an ocean of titanium white teeth—        
ornately framed islands of color          
         
drowning in dirty martinis        
and stoles of long-dead mink.          
         
The middle-class, parents        
their children in tow, controlled        
mannerisms dictated by rules—        
         
deep furrows across their brow:          
college tuition, savings, glasses, braces—        
societal expectations outweighing relaxation.          
         
The elderly, taking their time        
sipping beauty as though holy water        
offered during a drought          
from a golden goblet—        
         
threadbare raiment veiling skin        
cracked by elements; their faces          
angelic in appreciation: Michelangelo        
Matisse, Chagall, Van Gogh.       
         
The lonely, solo navigators          
circling some dreamy landscape          
of harvested wheat, or starry night          
over a provincial café          
         
Forlorn eyes having dissolved        
into brush strokes of cobalt blue        
yellow ochre, resurrected cadmium hues—        
         
memories of unrequited love        
relived over and over in a heart        
unwilling to let go.           
         
Then, her—        
         
there, red coat over sensible shoes;          
a second-hand bag, draped          
across an upright shoulder, simple        
updo complimenting  high cheekbones          
         
lightly touched with rouge. Her eyes          
shimmering greater than emeralds          
off-set by diamonds, having survived          
loneliness alone, she now eschews        
         
the in-crowd with a polite nod, drifting          
chin up—a compassionate zephyr          
gliding about the gallery as fresh air          
for those who couldn't breathe.          
         
I innately knew, at age eight        
she was exactly who I wanted to emulate—        
and I, shy and insecure, smiled regardless        
         
when she playfully navigated about me          
and winked.          
~