In the Boarding School of Air

My kids have a toy where they sit
and spin, then stand up and stagger,
laughing, drunk on air. I want that.
I want to change my name
to abracadabra, change my address
to are we there yet. On my drive

to work I pass heavy equipment
that scrapes the earth, pass workers dressed
in orange suits as they loiter
between breaks. Some smile, some glare.
They know more than I.

Bagworms dress the branches
of evergreens. My mouth is full
of dead things. I hop on one foot.
Then I'm spinning around
in nothingness, waiting
for the world to start.

Jim Zola