at a quarter to three local time Poem by antoine de kom

at a quarter to three local time
our young pilot swears while
over the peak with seven
giants that he's on automatic.
just this morning I thought that
the dog among the cessnas was
pregnant and would have her pups - doubtless
seven in number - sometime in the middle of
the night in a corner of the
hangar.
now we are leaving the giants behind
at 1500 feet we hold
her puppies (we are brothers)
gently up in our minds
while the seven giants
have become ladies with high hairdos
who dominate the landscape: that's
how they are the women of the
southern plains.