Psalm 27 on Newark Air Train ( Mid December, 4.15pm)

by Jacqueline Osherow

For an instant, I get a too-brief peek 

at an enormous psychedelic hot-pink sun 

crowding out a fleet of ugly, sleek 

steel-and-concrete slabs on the horizon 

through the windows on my left.  On my right 

the glass rectangle of an airport hotel 

is an outsized IMAX, all neon coral 

with the last of the sun’s reflected light. 

Whom do I thank? My Delta pilot,  

for landing my plane forty minutes early  

in this dizzy crossfire of light on light? 

Or the trigger-happy showoff on artillery, 

fending off the Newark Airport twilight 

with fusillades of gold (my strength, my light) 

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