I'm supposed to be on a plane for Gibraltar.

On the back of my hand, I've written keywords

like natural disaster and conscience.

In the turbulence, I'd be taking the in-flight meal

apart with a plastic knife.  It is always up

to the omelet to appear greening in the light.

So what if I've begun to resemble a hair ball

by the hour?  I've never gotten paid on time,

never had my nose hair plucked by

a professional.  There's supposed to be

a celebration of some sort—pagan

or otherwise—taking place in three days

at the studio of a future spouse.

The expectations of others have little

to do with reality.  The way everyone

prepares their clothes to jitterbug the dancefloor

is supposed to make me think everything else

is the alpha dog.  I shouldn't even be

following this trail of dead ants, but someone

burned them and left the magnifying lens

in my hand.  I have a birthday greeting, too

hidden somewhere in my body.  I should stop

fondling all this synthetic hair now.  If this is Kansas,

what have I been fighting for all my life?