A word to the wise:
if God had intended for mortals to fly, He would
have given them wings and a return ticket.
I get the willies inside a jumbo jet, flying.
Icarus, punch drunk on oxygen no doubt,
was either a madman or a serious fool. I mean,
not even a religious neurotic would venture
–blindly–into the unforgiving eye of Helios.
Neither would she temp the fates (and
Einstein’s laws of gravity, mind you),
donning a pair of wobbly waxed wings.
Daedalus, who hatched the idea and wove
the wings, bequeath to his flyboy son
the will but not the forbearance to use them.
Brimming with pride pitiless as the sun, the boy
flew as the sun blistered the air of the Aegean.
He soon fell, head over heels. Hence, this caveat:
when in doubt, always buckle up and remain
as close to terra firma as prudence, and the
air traffic controller, allows. The trouble is,
like Icarus, I lose perspective, pack everything:
tooth brush, tooth paste, electric shaving gear,
suntan lotion, especially when the balmy Caribbean
is the target in the middle of my crosshairs;
dress pants, polos and Playboy underwear briefs,
an extra pair of leather loafers 9 ½ DD, as well as
my all-purpose iPhone, Steve King’s current fiction.
Wonder if when my turn comes I will know to be
the brave one, to honor the heroic and the dead.
I will know what to cherish and always choose life.
Then I remember it’s Sept. 11 the day both towers fell
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