Why Am I In This Hangar?

Sometimes I feel like a giant with legs that go all the way up and a head too big for my neck.

I try to sit comfortably on an old tiny wooden kindergarten chair,

at an old tiny wooden kindergarten table in the middle of a giant empty metal airplane hangar.

It is dead quiet and poorly lit, but for an apparent spot light covering my work space.

Something, a compelling thought, I just need to write.

I can really feel it make my hands quiver electric.

An all-over itch with no particular spot to scratch the all-over-ness away.

There is lined paper with a large space between the solid lines and an extra dotted line

zipping across the middle to help with breaking capital letters like P's, R's and especially K's

and limit the minor characters.

Oh, and a giant unwieldy black lacquered pencil that seems to never need sharpening.

I can't quite get seated comfortably and as I adjust, the chair drags on the bare concrete floor

causing that wooden screechy ear piercing moan to echo over the space of the hundred yard hangar

and bounce back and forth on the ting-tang metal walls.

I can feel my heart beating in my ears, behind my eyes and maybe resonating off

those ching-chang tin hangar walls.

I am sure the sound of each breath I take

is rolling into the sound of a prior breath

as it coils back to me off those same walls.

A rolling sea of breaths,

now flow and ebb, ebb and flow.