The little brown birds bring updates
in exchange for popcorn and promises
of future employment; here we are all flying lost
searching for homeward thermals, familiar landscapes

some sign that we are, at last, following the plot
and some indication of time passing, not
one more digitally-enhanced mirage —
Dear Lord grant me a manually-wound clock

something I am responsible for doing, a making
even if it’s only to write down each unfolding
moment: a record to keep, a memory
to pass on when, at the proper moment for telling,

for a small bit of stale popcorn I can pass on my part of the story
and also – if I’m lucky – to fly away.