Freud's Container

I'm always boarding—
that is to say—
I'm ticketed and
there's a line and
maybe you go first,

someone small with
the scent of damp skin,
soft hands, limbs
thin. Always
we're happy

but anxious,
the line isn't
moving, the ticket
isn't right, the gate's
detumescing.

The plane flaps
its wings and loss
arrives, an egg
we step around,
boarding

but there are no
seats. We forgot
the seats! I have to
fix all that went before:
ticket, line, egg

but it's too late:
someone small to whom
I've said I'll be right back
is left inside
and flies.

Copyright © 2008 Terese Svoboda All rights reserved
from Gulf Coast
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission