Optimism

From a US mailbox.

Plus, by request, a poem (about travel - an exercise in terza rima)

LANDING
Under a plastic, sweating white skin
Humans plant down like bowed little trees
Sealing their growth in dry air and din.

'I ought to try to move my old knees,'
says a woman from old Pakistan,
flying her hair in a man-made breeze.

'Look Will, I'm not in tune with this plan,'
says a suit. Clouds smile out a gap:
It's land, scarred like a tramp with a tan.

'Seatbelts on with the usual crap,'
thinks a steward who coughs at the mike,
and turns off our fictional map.

We bump and shake and fret but quite like
how Earth pushes at us like a spike.