Dishpan Hands.
by Donna Kane

The Dash 8 plummets through clouds
like a piece of silverware flashing through suds.
As though God had been doing dishes and a fork had slipped
through his hands. Idly he fishes, groping the bottom with his fingers,
believing as he must, he'll recognize each object by its touch,
but the truth is he's distracted, thinks, there's gotta be more
than this kitchen sink, thinks, I'd rather be anywhere else but here,
thinks, give me a window with polka dot sheers,
a built-in Maytag, a three day week, someone else
to answer your prayers.