Terror and Heartbreak at 420,000 Feet
I sleep and gaze upon splattered
mess halls while I film you showering
bullets, planes gyre on the football
field while you rinse my smell off your
nakedness. Drench the towel while I
adjust my rifle, spliff cliff hanging from
lips never to be kissed again by you or any
god-forsaken sprite.
Airborne on, I follow the stewardess
to rear of the cabin, back when smoking
was permitted among the clouds. I read her
this poem, joke about napping. "If only
I could sleep on my feet while we flew."
She arches her eyebrow, looking at you
passed out in the seat. "Over easy?
Or scrambled?" Diner slang for fidelity.
"Sister," I sip, "I was never once sure."
The captain alerts last call to her wife &
you stir.
No comments:
Post a Comment