The President Flies Over

Aloft between heaven and them,

I babble the landscape — what staunch, vicious trees,
what cluttered roads, slow cars. This is my

country as it was gifted me — victimless, vast.
The soundtrack buzzing the air around my ears
continually loops ditties of eagles and oil.
I can’ t choose. Every moment I’ m awake,
aroused instrumentals channel theme songs,
what I cannot.

I don’ t ever have to come down.
I can stay hooked to heaven,
dictating this blandness.
My flyboys memorize flip and soar.
They’ ll never swoop real enough
to resurrect that other country,

won’ t ever get close enough to give name
to tonight’ s dreams darkening the water.

I understand that somewhere it has rained.