Someone at work decided I looked like the one
in charge of paper airplanes, salvaged one from a dirty corner
to place on my desk. I have a respirator on my face. I am careful with air, so I am in charge

of any and all paper airplanes, if anyone asks.
If anyone asks, in my dream a few nights ago, I cried happy tears with the flight attendant
once I reached Spain (in an imaginary, prayed-for future)

because real-me thinks I will never travel again. No real air offers safe passage to me
in this hereafter. I can fake caring about paper folding, but I can’t pretend an airborne virus
goes on vacation when the people around me turn out the lights, pretending not to be home.

I can travel with my thoughts, recalling the ER, a breathing treatment.
I’ve trained myself: the gasping eventually stops. I use my inhaler when I can inhale.
I’d travel with a suitcase full of sky and/or bronchodilators, wondering what a prayer consists of.

I travel: is prayer just thinking
with a little more wind behind it?

I fold and refold the airplane.

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