LOW FLIGHT

 

Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of the office

And danced the Chairs on laughter-silvered interphones;

Sunward I've climbed, and watched the tumbling mirth

Of sun-split clouds--and looked on a hundred things

You have not dreamed of--wheeled and clicked and swung

High in the florescent silence. Sitting there,

I've observed the shouting wind, and flung

My unmanned craft through footless halls of ice-free air.

Up, up the long, delirious, burning black and white of IR

I've escaped the windswept heights with scheduler’s grace

Where never lark, or even eagle flew

And, while with silent, numbing mind I've typed through

The pre-programmed sanctity of space,

Put out my hand and touched the flat screen.

 

--John DOE

 

 (2003, age 19)