First Poet:
I fly all the time, and still I’m afraid to fly.
I need to keep both feet on the ground, the earth
within reach of my eyes. In airports I comfort myself
by assessing others–look at that handsome necktie,
the weave of that suit, the portfolio-people of worth
are going to be on this plane—the pearls on that shelf
of costly bosom, the hairdresser’s art—all this
tells my shuddering spirit that God wouldn’t tip
my seatmates, all these important people, from sight.
Once the stewardess passed the word that Liz
would be joined in Rome by Richard Burton, who was up
in First Class. I have never felt so safe on a flight!
Second Poet:
I too fly all the time, and still I tremble.
I arrive too early and sit there sweating and cold.
I read at a book but can’t make out what it means.
I look around at the others as they assemble
and make a collection of the dowdy old,
backpacking young, slouched in their dusty jeans,
men who have business suits of the wrong size on,
Frizzled Hair, Greasy Hair and Drooping Hem.
Humbly they live and humbly they will die-
this scroungiest bunch of people I’ve ever laid eyes on.
Surely God has no special fate in mind for them,
I tell myself, like a plane falling out of the sky.
Leave a Reply