This poem was written on a trans-atlantic flight from Paris to Atlanta. After you switch to the internal flight to Shreveport, the drinks are no longer free. I'm not sure which leg I wrote the poem on, but I had two other poems on the same fascinating subject, on the same day.
This may be the second of three or the third of one.
Flight
Why do we meddle with everything? Why couldn't we leave flight to things that fly —
insects, birds, clay pigeons and teacups?
God meant some things to fly, but why did he include darts, arrows and ping-pong balls,
for instance?
Balloons were nice, when they were
The Fliers.
Very unassuming, a balloon; very.
We tried to leave god in charge but he over-exhibited humility.
Why would he want to be my co-pilot?
I swear he insisted on a lower case gee.
Phillip Brown.
