Aug 25, 2017, 07:00AM

Ghost Pilot

Am I dead?

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Am I dead?
This yoke of command. 
No turning back. 
Navigating soup.
Procedures forsaken.

Rapid roll to the right
Betrays the horizon.
Wish I’d called in sick. 
Voices swap, feel up
The ceiling, glow mortal.
No turbulence but peculiar 

Buzzing in the cockpit. An
Undoing. Damn prop flies off,
Slices a hole into the fuselage.
Explosive decompression. 
Oxygen over. Fume of fog.

Am I dead?
Terror of hypoxia.
I keep my head. Level my wings,
Scroll hardened bush below.
Anglers caught shooting.
Geriatric moose.

Stronger than-ten-acres-of-garlic 
Electra crippled, stuck on full throttle. 
Hips shaking, about to rip apart.
High tail? Ditch? 
Envision a long, northern runway. 

Take the thing by the horns,
Steer, brute muscle mustered.
Stabilize this damn fossil.
Second pass. Last chance. Brace.
Before touchdown. Kill the engines. 
Committed. Hurtling.


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