Fickle hearts and lights

I wish on too many airplanes, going nowhere.
But those are easier to find than stars here:
Our own glow suffocates almost anything else.
And I would imagine that when you wish on stars,
on the graveyard of lights, older than the earth when finally seen,
we are praying to old gods: kindly, slow, and a bit stupid.
And they look down at us like children, experiencing everything for the first time
pain and war, explosions blowing up dust to dust, beauty and love and
everything else worthwhile, though I cannot think of much...
And they listen as carefully as they can, to our foolish thoughts,
Nodding in assent, and finally falling asleep mid-sentence; Our thoughts
finally conveyed to the universe, if it helps. But airplanes,

Airplanes are a whole 'nother dynamic.
Sudden urges come upon us all, while in flight,
the desire to go somewhere where we are not going,
To see someone we should not see, to fall in love again:
To fly to Portland and long for cute hipster chicks
and ironic hipster boys, to Hawaii to live and love with tan samoans
and sunlight, to NY to be a part of the chaos, get lost in the shadows
of brownstones and florescent lights, lining long boulevards, seeing love
in central park, I can glimpse their faces, mousy, brown black blonde hair,
and slender figures as if in silhouette on gauze curtains...
These flights of reverie, I am convinced, are wishes
put upon me by relentless pedestrians and tired cab drivers, going nowhere.
And so I fear, I have been driving the gray businessmen, sitting in first class,
quite mad with longing. So this is an apology of sorts, I suppose
I will burden the old ones carrying many little cares, peeking
and following us all until we are united, and recycled.