Bush Pilot [Poem] by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

We are defiling her bed in glorious ways
after the bottle and music by candlelight
and there I am just above her splayed legs,
my face strafing across the horizon  
and I start making these sounds like a small plane
so that she asks me what the hell I’m doing
and I tell her I am a bush pilot coming in close
over the thick lush canopy,
she closes her legs and begs me to stop 
making that awful noise,
but I tell her I can’t, that if the plane just stops
I will fall right out of the air and crash to my death
and that looks like unusually thick bush down there,
even a seasoned search team would not stand 
a chance.

Just what every woman wants to hear!
she sits up in bed 
and crosses her arms.

But I have already climbed back up to altitude 
and flew right out of the room with my outstretched arms
for wings and a fuel gauge running on low.

Published by mistyrampart

Freelancer, poet, dreamer

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