• Matt Smythe

WORK TRAVEL


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.


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