They must look down at earth and mutter:
I would kill for some fast food. Envision themselves
as a child sitting in a parking lot in a rusty sedan.
Dipping fries ketchup and scanning the sky.
Safe on the ground, limits untested.
Dreams unrealized and unspoiled
by physics and time and the
mundane realities of employment.
Their minds must map midwest constellations.
Corn. Sonic Drive-Ins. Fading steel towns.
The memory of corn syrup clings to their throats.
Homesickness coating the tongue.
