Night Flight -credit T.S. Eliot poem The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

With great abandon, here go I,

with wings a-beating in the sky

I crafted them upon my table;

now drying them in windy streets,

when laughed at, my visage here retreats


Sometimes find me in hotels

after collecting stones and shells:

till erupts an argument

twas not my original intent

When then they ask a vague question …

“What is it?”


I respond, you must go visit

and when you finally actually go

you’ll hear me think ‘bout Michelangelo.


Within the oil stained window-panes,

inventions brew, and so do pains,

I work until the late evening,

making things that look like drains,

as smoke puffs from warm chimneys,


Now testing, I take a fearless leap,

and deep, I fly into the night,

while all my friends are fast asleep.


Then quickly, not heeding time

over the mountain, past the street,

reflecting wings on window-panes;

there will be time, there will be time

to prepare a flight to faces meet;


And then more wings I will create,

for all the other idle hands

who love adventure on their plate;

but then will be no time for me,

with feathers plucked and indecisions,

and for a hundred visions and revisions

till I can rest with morning tea.


Till then will people come and go

Talking of Michelangelo. 


And then soon will come a time

to dream, to even dare?”

time to appear upon the stair,

and with a flutter of my hair —

but now the air is growing thin!

my harness cradling waist and chin,

if I left out a single pin

my wings they do look awfully thin!

Do I dare 

Disturb the universe


I do this all the time

make snap revisions which a second shall reverse.


And now go feathers one and all:

not in evening but afternoon,

I have created new wings with spoons;

I hear the screams as I fall

as if already they see the emergency room.

             What do they presume?


Those eyes who witnessed my fall all—

mutter a horrifying phrase,

then when I feel as needles and pins,

I view that hole of light in wall,

this is how shall my end begin

in heaven with its winged ways?

               And what do they presume?


-Sandra Johnson, 6/23/19

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