I imagine our pilot climbing
from the clouds and spotting
the plane ahead of us,
saying I can catch that fucker.
Think of the slow-developing dogfights.
Passengers screaming
with glee and terror while
our pilot chomps a cigar in his grimace. There’s no gunfire,
these are commercial planes.
But there are flight attendants
mooning from open hatch doors,
middle fingers, tossing pots
of hot coffee and peanuts. It’s spectacular. Right-handed circling descent.
The clouds dizzy with our antics. Her voice like Morse code within the engine thrum.
Dot dot dot dash dash dot dash.
Seatbacks and tray tables upright.
Tiny whisky bottles and Captains wings
for our valued First Class guests.
Like we can hear in the cheap seats.
Wings explode like a schematic
in preparation for landing.
Dragging us and our baggage
down from thousands of feet
and hundreds of miles per hour.
Pulling cloud whisps like
a rough finger on a cotton ball.
Coming in hot for cell service.