Flying to Melbourne
Had we not cancelled,
we’d be flying right now -
the dark Pacific below -
elbow to elbow
with each stressed other
and some elbowing stranger.
Ahead: the Inter-
national Date Line,
that puzzle again.
(Restored to us that lost
day taken when we
flew west-east,
or is it the reverse?
Once an uncle and I
fell out debating this.)
Behind, our flat
in winter Seattle,
the dogs and minder
socialising, settling.
Ahead some forecast
Melbourne summer,
possibly heatwave,
possibly overcast,
possible cloudburst.
But we cancelled.
We’ll try for June.
We’ve sent ahead
apologies, excuses,
pained postponements,
promised atonements.
My mind had been teeming
with anticipations -
delighted reunions,
buddies and rellies,
various favourites,
exchange of gifts;
breathing that air again,
taking a tram to town,
the blithe sensation
of blending back in -
a local, stepping along
noting small changes,
adjusting my accent
back again (Melbourne/
Australian);
deleting ‘sidewalk’,
muting my ‘R’ sounds,
and ‘have a good day’.
2
Reunions more nearly
perfect, it may be,
imagined, than
in actuality.
‘How long was it?
You haven’t changed!’
Code for ‘we mustn’t
show how he’s aged!’
‘Let’s arrange some
leisurely catch-up.’
(December - there’s
just no time to spare -
must they barge back in here
expecting us to fit our
packed routines to theirs?)
What should we say?
Why didn’t you write?
No-one writes these days.
Long letter gets short retort,
if any. Didn’t you follow
us on Facebook?
We’re so over that.
But welcome home -
staying long?
|