In the Making of Sky-Gods

this crumpled paper cup, scavenged 
from the airplane's bulkhead trashbin, 
somehow makes the caffeinated mud
uncle sam provides taste less bitter.
I look at my reflection smile back    
at me in this tarry pond, encased
by cracked wax beaches, and wonder
if that's how my black-clad body appears
to my two cadet-skygods when we step
into flight through 12,000 feet
of cloudy, sightless night.
they claim to have no fear
while palmsweat darkens the cloth
on their knees.  one will ask me
what it's like, and I know
what he wants, but will tell him
the coffee stinks.  then he'll tell me                                                
no, that he wants to know what it's like,
pointing out the Starlifter's dark window.
then I will say, it stings,
flying through thunderheads,
because your face hits
the pointy end of the raindrops,
and he will believe me.

© 1991, Kevin Gilbert