Poetic License: Icarophobia
Am I afraid of flying or falling?
The sight of the plane stuffs Adam’s apple
deep down my throat, heart plunges into belly.
Forehead sweats ice.
Fumbling for photo ID, bumbling shoes
removal offer nervous respite
and comic relief- like humor at a wake.
Boarding’s announced, I ask for a second vodka.
Front window seat delays my boarding
till the very end.
Am I afraid of flying or falling?
Clumsy taxiing, ominous minutes
on runway, menacing roar,
ungainly heavier-than-air lift and climb.
Am I afraid of flying?
Cruising at height that could piss off Apollo,
seat belt lights chime off – what about hubris?
Third vodka relief due within minutes.
After each air bump I wonder
how we stay up without propellers,
trapped hot air or flapping wings.
Am I afraid of falling?
Third vodka magic:
Adam’s apple and heart pop back in place,
brain buzzes, soars with bravado-
I AM NOT AFRAID OF FLYING OR FALLING!
In the pocket size toilet I calculate:
my urine skims over Earth at 722 feet
per second, plus or minus relativity.
Snack time. I toy with possible headline:
Doomed Passenger Ate Hearty Breakfast
of Salted Peanuts.
Turbulence tumbles my euphoria down
into panic, my wife squeezes my hand
in reassurance, seat belt light snaps on.
I am afraid again of flying and falling.
“Journey’s end lies round the bend.”
Apollo’s chariot shaky as we descend
through dark towers of cumulo-nimbi,
Zeus flashing in the distance. I close
my eyes. Landing gear thumps into place,
an on of suspension until tires screech
on runway and engines roar in reversal, then
graceful and grateful taxiing toward terminal.
Relief and hangover allow me to wonder:
Was I afraid of flying — or falling?