Flight

My window makes no difference;
the blinds compressed,
tightly bound,
hanging dirty at the top,
I see nothing beyond for me.

The whistling breeze sneaks in
like a kiss smothering gently
my hair and skin.

The distant red lights for planes
are now guiding rubies
pressed hard into the
silent virgin black
spreading over indifference.

But I am led nowhere
except back to my room,
the one without a window.

© 1994 Sherrie Lee