Fear of Flying

The minute he stepped off the plane
he thought of her and how she hated
flying - how the white metal protruded
and streamlined around her,
anxious to be friends;
how the engine gasped in awe
as it buckled the weight of 234
strangers and kept them from floating
away.

She was afraid of crashing and of caring
what clothes she packed in matching
luggage that would not make it home.
She hated the folding trays,
how they all stood at attention
and the smell of mint souring the stewardess'
breath as she leaned in too far with a pack of
pretzels.

He reminded her that the wings were
sturdy girders, not made of balsa wood and floss
like the ones at the museum and that
the drone was some sort of science -
not some strange addiction
or a scheme of addled magic bumping against the
sky
and that falling always took
the wrong kind of courage.