Flight to Abuja While
Thinking of Lockerbie
Encased in plastics and a metal shell,
We hurtle through the night above a black
Colossal continent of dark and smell
The airline food. The captain knows the track
That we are following, or thinks he does
(Unless an Islamist attack succeeds).
We blink, ignore the constant roaring buzz,
And swallow while the streaking tube proceeds
Past meaningless lights far below. We gaze
Through oval windows, shapes to reassure
Us gently that not all lines angle, blaze,
Explode and fall, that some things are secure.
Do not consider slaughter, tyrants, or
Starvation. Ask the stewardess for more.