Flying from L.A., into fog shrouding
clogged freeways, drivers numbed sitting,
I tilt my nose in the air,
climb over San Gabriel's mountains, longing
to veer toward Italy, an American in love
with an Italian hulk.  He transports me, throttles
my engines, fuels my belly, woos me with vino
and Bel Paese.

I'm out of control, going this way and that,
pitching, and rolling the r in amore,
winging it through cerulean 
strokes, slipping, sliding, 
wanting to roll, tumble, 
stay aloft, the yaw wider
still wider,  toward global
warming ozone holes.

I'm landing on the Mojave, that
blazing strip of sand,
desert shells agape
in terminal stages of love.

Attitude.  That's what I tell
myself. Remember the control tower.
Mayday.  Mayday.  Rudder broken,
tail spinning, please advise, over,
over, do you read?
 

-- Lucille Gang Shulklapper