Flight

Weight overtakes speed
as cabin crew in thick make-up
tong hot towels
towards untanning faces.
We are 33 thousand feet above
perhaps the caste system
Inter v Juventus, the Kurds
Somalia’s hungry white teeth
a school of sardines?
in our given corridor
among the aluminium birds
when the engines stop.

Woody Allen’s on screens
or, as appropriate, Arnold S.
Dutchman’s on his fourth whisky
full-nappy kid’s catwalking the aisle
her parents in denial
outside the matchbox loos queues
are extended by Mile High Clubbers
poking fun at comfort.

A 777-300 briefly glides
before push comes to dive
autopilot washes its hands
and the one just woken by the co
has no joy with flashing lights
whup-whup alarms, amok altimeter.
All systems down, as is the nose.

At 45 degrees the screaming starts.
We’ve 90 seconds or so to re-wind
lives part-lived, fast-forward through
loves, losses, wrongs, pendings …
But the review is not the book:
my vision is just spilling orange juice
recall is merely its medicinal taste
the image, which should be God, or you
is the eager gymnasts
coupling in the “Occupied”
wondering if they will get there
before we do.