It’s fleet week in San Francisco.
The Navy’s Blue Angels are buzzing the boulevards
laying hawk-like shadows across pocket parks.
I’d rather the cardiac wing’s patients take flight.
The ones with spindly legs and wrinkled elbows
the dizzy ones, too, and the ones with fragile lungs.
I’d spring them from their hospital beds
let them spread their green capes
the ones they wear in reverse
their small moons bared to the heavens.
These air show jets screech.
I want instead heart patients fluttering.
How sweet and hopeful I’d find
their bright green formations.
They’d be patched up and soaring
untethered from catheters, IVs
freed from the drip of pain.
Flyers, the wind’s in your favor—
Bring your wild hair and miraculous recoveries—
Escape your tangled sheets and drab rooms!