A. McHugh

We're buckled in, on the runway.
Slap-dash, we hit the air. We say

We love each other, and we do—
But there is only speed to hold us

In this cockeyed plane. The exit row,
A flight attendant taught us how

To leave; she mentioned a long slide
That we would each go down alone.






While deprived of nicotine and sleep, layover-drunk in the Memphis airport, it seemed to me like planes were all right machines. Cheers. Also, maybe a little like my love-life. Bottoms up. Anyway, I squinted at a computer screen on the flight back home and, well. This is the only poem I've written in mid-air. Good talk.