The long shadows of late afternoon

spread across the tide flats, leaving

only the puddles, piddles & rivulets

to glint the sun.

Birds poke at the last hours. That one

with a dagger beak, that one with a scimitar.

Bonefish ignore us all.

High, high in the frigid blue of distance

a jet liner carries a few hundred souls,

temporarily soaring with the angels.

If the angels cared to take note, they

would pay particular attention to the

occupant of seat 19-C, whose long legs

claim nearly all the aisle.

If the flight attendants, wearing wings &

perfect hair, were in fact angels,

they would likely smite the bastard

with the sword of Gabriel.

But they don’t.

Excuse me, Mark with a drink cart.

Excuse me, Claire said.

Watch your feet please.

There resides an ache between her shoulders

from bending over seated rows.

Another session due for Mark's knee.

Twenty-six years old and another

two million miles to go.

Claire pauses near the exit jump seats,

gazes out at the carpet sea. So many

imperfect landing spots, so many places

to drown someone you meet.

Karma, she prays, let it be a bitch.

Travis Stephens is a tugboat captain who lives and works with his family in California. His book of poetry, “skeeter bit & still drunk” was published by Finishing Line Press. Visit him at: zolothstephenswriters.com