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.
Pilots
Pilots
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.