“The Way Pilots Walk”
Like their cocks and haunches are heavy with it.
Arrogant past Starbucks and baggage claim, past
flinching monitors and the C gates, pilots stride
navy and crease, chiseled heads swiveling in bare
tolerance of we, the ground-bound. Their faces are
chapped by a higher sun, their pompadours glossy
and blade cut. They live a huger life awfully close
to heaven, where blessings begin. How smug are
those little hats, dripping with mysterious medals,
shaped like a salute to the men who wear them?
We bear bowed, pissed witness to their dismissive
sniffs, the oh-so-holier-than-thou in their hips.
There’s no bound script for that sexy moment when
the wide sky inhales their laughable machines and
folds their hurtling heartbeats into the blue. Go on,
join the club. Envy their asses. And pray towards
them. Every flyboy is your fate wearing a crisp little
uniform. A quirk of pulse, a sleepless night, a flick
of his wrist could kill you, a hundred other yous.
And maddening as it may be, there’s just no answer
to that strut. It says, Fuck you. I’ve got the air.
1 comment December 2nd, 2007