There are no fields
Between the plane
And the ground below.
The farmlands look like
Bandaids, and the little car
On the long skinny highway
Down there looks
Foolproof as a bead
On an abacus wire,
As a button on a thread.
Full-sized is inside,
And he has to steer
Or he'll go in the ditch.
He could hit his head.
Or worse, miss
In a room in one of
The buildings along-
Side the road.
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Comments about this poem (Perspective by Mike Finley )
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