Flight Poem by Robert Rorabeck

A little bit of good is in the wings of an airplane,
For it can take us the farthest away, in amphibian
Leaps, in the sexy legs’ choreography-
Misguided lovers may wake up on Sundays, rub their
Sleepy eyes and say hello, hello? And be most perplexed,
Because already you have sacrificed for passage through
The concrete corridors where souls not already dead
Are disembarking; All sorts of failures can be handled this
Way, spent fuel streaming behind you like effluvious confetti,
A vagabond holiday of flippant services, the bone smiles
Of your conductors and their perked tits, the coffee percolates,
The danish twists, and you can let the lucky sleep droop
Your lips: Then, back down from featherless heaven, disjointed
And amiss, the new cities, the old cities, spill out before
You like a toppled candelabrum starting to fire, and for
Day labors you can buy your fill of cheap hotels, cigarettes,
Runny liquors, and squealing girls: and the forgetful type of
Honey stolen from the impish bees combed from the altered
Branches by the silver bellied flight, and if all is not right,
Then fugitive flee, for already the engines are purring like
Tadpole kittens to skip your across the sky once more,
And string you out again upon another’s floor whose blacky
Histories, thankfully, you know nothing of, nor care nothing for.