Valid Passport

She always carries her passport. And it's current.
Because she likes to pretend that she's free.
She's not.
So grounded, so tied to the ground, as grounded as a McVeigh tripwire
that she's not going anywhere. Ever.

Still, every ten years,
she mails a current photo (2" by 2", full face only please)
and her money ($75 fee payable to the U.S. Department of State)
and renews that little blue book
that virginal blue book she's never used.
Because someday, maybe someday,
she just might.

Someday is now.

There are many roads, but all roads lead to roam
and Rhodes and Rome are no longer fantasies
Seven wonders. She wonders.
The Colossus hangs in the gardens and
Babylon tongues caress her under the pyramids of love, speaking lies,
while Zeus and Artemis, those paragons of brawn and brains, sleep in their mausoleum.
The beacon above flickers, searching for an honest man.

Heat rises from the tarmac in visible waves.

She fingers the little blue book.
"It's time you were deflowered, baby. Fasten your seatbelt, it's going to be a bumpy night."
Face, grimy with tears, determined,
pushed into her seat, adrenaline flowing, she breathes.
Gliding through the sweet cotton, open, waiting,
moon reflects the light on the Pacific far below.

Dream closet opens.