My vision isn’t sharp enough to read
the white-on-orange letters overhead,
but I can’t fail to notice them – I need
to take in my surroundings. Walking dead
are all around me – eyes upon their phones,
ambulation automatic, blind
to whimsy, deaf to nonelectric tones –
so only I behold the airy find.

Above the Sunday strollers glides a ship
as silent as a cloud: a fat cigar
that floats on air. Nobody notes it there.
I’m half-impelled to give this man a tip
or show that child, pointing: “See it? Far
above and bold?”
But I don’t think they care.