Domestic Flight

Domestic Flight

It was not a scheduled departure,
the night when I finally took charge
of my life. What got my attention,
apparently, was the fantastic pink
and purple abstract fresco splashed
by the wine bottle flung at the wall
to the top-volume tune of uncorked
oaths well beyond what we both
knew by heart. Instantly, the vessel
containing patience, reason, hope,
all my jewels, sprinkled its green
glass shards over the dinner table,
and the name of the game changed.
I summoned the will to walk, no,
I had achieved escape velocity by
then, without thinking I simply
walked out to the garage, where
my VW bug reversed me down
the driveway into Fourth Street,
Welcome to Who You Are Street,
where nothing stood between me
and the black (mostly) and white,
silent, embryonic web of stars.