The Crying Baby Flight
We are landing in the night
and the lights make our town a city,
the way one light in the dark
seems like home, seems safe.
The babies were brown and cried
loud in the native tongue of babies,
not the one their father used when he said
what no doubt meant be quiet little one
or shut the f**k up (and who among us
would know, though many of us were
thinking it). Then the baby said
I have to pee pee. I have to pee pee.
And we wanted to say Jesus man,
let the kid pee, but we were landing
and none of us could move and I
imagined a river of pee moving under
my seat, soaking my computer bag,
gliding toward the pilot’s locked door.
Threat code yellow. Threat code warm.
I raised my feet; the baby was quiet,
his father too.
