Saturday morning, Duxbury, Mass.

Air travel is miraculous, three thousand miles in a day -
My land! as my gramma used to say, who never flew -
but me and you, we do, and it's not so glamorous.
Turbulence yesterday descending into Atlanta,
everybody's breath sucked in, flight attendants
belted into jumpseats silent over their Gourmet's.
Taxiing to the gate, we reassert our kinship to each
other and the ant - "I'm here, I'm on the ground,"
ritual opening of the overhead bins, general din,
flight attendants in rubber gloves ready to clean
the heads, terminal cacophony, hanging television
glare and I'm not really there but almost late
for my next flight. The girl who hoped for
an empty seat must move beside the single man.
My book opens, her book opens and we're off again,
a second bag of tiny pretzels put away. But as I say,
this lift off is miraculous. Five miles above storm
clouds and moving steadily north. Landing gear
thumps into position, we near Logan's peninsula,
hit the runway, the pilot says "ouch" over the PA,
we expect miracles today, are angered by delay
of what was impossible for almost everyone
two winks ago. We're cross at the luggage
carrousel, crowd in at the beep and amber light
whose flashing might be code to say my green bag
lags behind in Atlanta. The official behind the lost
luggage counter has the apologetic yet jokey
manner that deflects our angry disappointment,
the man and woman in front of me on their way
by car to Canada, though not yet and maybe
not tonight. I leave with a form and promise.
Hours into the line at Budget car rental, I listen
for my phone, imagine my bag beating me home.