The One is the Good Year Pilot

If I am not awed, I am wrong
or tired
or perhaps a bit peckish;

I have acted as the avatar of wonder
on this plane;
existing primarily as a conduit
of delight.
I've lived among it, or tasted it,
or rubbed it into my cuticles.

There are times when the recipe
for life is three parts luminescent divinity
and one part indivisible hunger

There exists the gnawing angst
that the world is too much an expanse of
joy for one life.

And then, of course, there are the rest of times;
we are matted fur, and fallen crests;
there is a certain Madagascar 3 to it all

when even the once fantastic
invokes the tired whirling lights
of carnival rides;

life is equal parts
stubbed toes
and Cheeto powder.

When you are abandoned thus by the world
I invite you, all but one,
to create a dirigible
in the deepest core of your imagination:
green expanse spools out beneath you,
vast jungles of health and mystery

and then conjure
the wooden helm firm in your
hands, the Aurora
borealis'd
ahead
and your favorite sandwich
wrapped in wax
neatly
within reach.