Gray clouds underlit pinkish by a passing city,

eerie and ethereal, a vast cauldron bubbling

and beneath it all humanity.

It is difficult to feel as though one belongs

anywhere, least of all here

among forces we were not meant to know.

Everyone finds religion in turbulence,

scanning the aisles for the infant

whom earlier you’d cursed for crying.

White-knuckled, you plan to ride his coattails

into salvation, and hope that Peter is having a smoke.

You take a long sip of scotch and plot.