Chicagoetry: Heaven

Heaven

Sometimes it hurts
Even in heaven.

Yep: and sometimes
It's lonely
At a table of seven.

Sometimes the day
Comes in low

Like a rickety
Turboprop plane
Overloaded with bills,

Baggage, blues, bullies,

And yesterday's news,
Dry engines shrieking
Steadily toward you,

Heaving propellers
Clipping the tree line
Before the runway,

Branch stems
And leaf shards
Festooning

The end
Of the designated
"Low Noise" corridor.

Dreamliner my ass.

Like: an old C-130
Listing, fuming, backfiring,
Skidding off the runway

Left.
Winston Freakin' Churchill
Over here

Lumbering down the gangway
Grousing about not having
His morning brandy

And cigar and what are
YOU going to do about it?!

Lady Freakin' GaGa
Over here

Won't come out of the toilet
Until she gets a Rolls Royce limo
Stocked with bottled rain water

And fresh bougainvillea.

Lady Freakin' Madonna
Over here,

Baby at her breast,
Wonders if you'd manage
To feed some uninvited

Guests.

This morning apparently
Your head has become
Chicago's desperately needed

Third airport.
Sometimes heaven
Is an abandoned airport

Or the concept
Of a desperately needed
Third airport

As of yet militantly
Unrealized.
Or a long, empty

Dining table
Polished to a dazzling sheen,
Lovingly set

For one.

Empty of shrieking,
Empty of judgment,
Empty of need.

Sometimes heaven
Is quiet ("a place
Where nothing

Ever happens"),
Secluded, solitary,
Safe, garlanded

With bougainvillea
And the remnants
Of rain.

No guests.

Temporary heaven, hewn
From a hard world,

Like an Amish
Oak table,
Like a Cuban cigar.

Heaven enough,
Heaven begun,
Heaven with a finite

End.

Then you hear
The next sputtering jet

Descend.

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J.J. Tindall is the Beachwood's poet-in-residence. He welcomes your comments. Chicagoetry is an exclusive Beachwood collection-in-progress.

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