There’s not much to get excited about
when boarding a red-eye flight.
Crippling jetlag aside,
anticipation of a saved twenty dissipates
quicker than an insultingly small
bag of pretzels.
‍
Redemption across the window,
my desolate black vantage
is that of a star
brimming with warmth and twinkle –
wondering why all the fun
is down there.
‍
Littered with ground stars,
it’s a saturation akin to oaks
planted on a windowsill.
Even economy class muffins understand
too many blueberries robs the chewer’s thrill
of finally feeling one hit the tongue.
‍
Unless they’re vast glowing families –
city blocks of garrulous cousins
flickering in Morse code,
intersections marrying disparate lineages,
descendants of the Ferris wheel
on the pier: a fluorescent mother bee.
‍
With my helium-cluttered brain,
there is just enough space to ask
why wasn’t I invited
to the brightest party this side of the moon,
left as alone as a window seat passenger
smiling hello to a plane across the horizon?

JD Schwartzman is a poet residing in Florida. In his time away from reading and writing poetry, he is a medical student and aspiring surgeon. He graduated from Duke University, where he studied Biology and Philosophy while competing on the varsity fencing team.

Published 2nd January, 2023.