Pilots
Pilots
You see them in the terminal,
Walking alongside roller bags,
Alone, or in pairs like cranes,
Wearing their airline's regalia.
Their hair is cut crisp at the neck.
They order a coffee like we do,
Examine the wan sandwiches
In the glass case, sigh and pay
The marked-up airport price.
They are like us in every way
Except that they've learned to fly.
Soon, hundreds of lives
Will be in their hands.
I know, I know - autopilot.
Hear me out. These are the ones
Who, as children, began to dream
Of what it would feel like to fly.
And although he looks tired
And somewhat sad, eating
His regrettable sandwich,
Somewhere inside this man
Is the boy who sat on his knees
Reading Saint-Exupéry.