deepundergroundpoetry.com
Flights
Flight IB7453.
He is tall,
thin, as if left unfed
and suited in pin-stripes, no less.
It doesn't take away from his daddy-long-legs ideal.
I rest my head on the seat,
twist my knees out to the window
and watch
the white length of metal cut through our shared, charlatan sky.
Over the edge of golden-brimmed glasses and a particularly formal newspaper,
he watches me.
He is tall also,
muscular,
when he walks down the isle
every woman, every man and every child
is drooling, like a seventy two year old man getting his fix of perky, youthful breasts, their momentary Jesus.
His eyes are the green pools Bambi could run through,
his lips, the cherries, ripe for picking
and the slightly see-through t-shirt only aids my curiousity, unsure of anyone else's.
He sits in front of me twisting his words 'neath an irish accent
and bending the chair with his weight like a French Vogue-beauty over the four-poster in Amsterdam.
I crack my neck.
The hit slams the back of my seat.
Two children howling and hollering and lashing out, one mother sweating.
Her eyes plead "Don't leave me." when mine make contact
but I'm not their mother and I don't have to help.
I turn back to face the window.
Flight attendants drill for money with speakers and chocolate and alcohol and their souls and a normal sleeping pattern.
The children squeal like greedy rats for chocolate whilst I am just happy
with the Jack Dan's, swishing in my glass. I begrudge the ice.
Seat belts on,
in flight turbulence across the darkening sky. I yawn.
He is tall,
thin, as if left unfed
and suited in pin-stripes, no less.
It doesn't take away from his daddy-long-legs ideal.
I rest my head on the seat,
twist my knees out to the window
and watch
the white length of metal cut through our shared, charlatan sky.
Over the edge of golden-brimmed glasses and a particularly formal newspaper,
he watches me.
He is tall also,
muscular,
when he walks down the isle
every woman, every man and every child
is drooling, like a seventy two year old man getting his fix of perky, youthful breasts, their momentary Jesus.
His eyes are the green pools Bambi could run through,
his lips, the cherries, ripe for picking
and the slightly see-through t-shirt only aids my curiousity, unsure of anyone else's.
He sits in front of me twisting his words 'neath an irish accent
and bending the chair with his weight like a French Vogue-beauty over the four-poster in Amsterdam.
I crack my neck.
The hit slams the back of my seat.
Two children howling and hollering and lashing out, one mother sweating.
Her eyes plead "Don't leave me." when mine make contact
but I'm not their mother and I don't have to help.
I turn back to face the window.
Flight attendants drill for money with speakers and chocolate and alcohol and their souls and a normal sleeping pattern.
The children squeal like greedy rats for chocolate whilst I am just happy
with the Jack Dan's, swishing in my glass. I begrudge the ice.
Seat belts on,
in flight turbulence across the darkening sky. I yawn.
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