Aircraft Cabin Zoe Patterson
Snaking gold veins dribble and drip below Tinned tuna somehow airborne
We’re chasing the sun with the moon
Bobbing like a white face at our backs The clouds pulling cotton
Across our air-sucked eyes. Home is a memory
Easily tampered with behind your shoulders How is it splitting so suddenly At the seams?
Did you leave it in the dryer too long? Did you photocopy it or 3D print it?
Which one is real? It cannot—surely—be an Aircraft cabin?
A place as uncomfortable as the man
Shuffling past you from that pencil-box bathroom. His indigestion eyes are a warning worse than
Seatbelt signs. You really don’t want to go in there. Home shouldn’t be
A scrabbling toddler’s kick
Or the quivering string of drool That glitters from you
To the tray the attendant is clearing.
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