On a (mile) higher plane
Really out of breath, in heaven, or anyway
30,000 feet closer to it
the two sit back down in their seats.
Beaming. Tingling. Smiling. Sex in the bathroom;
the high consciousness of the Mile High Club
just got higher.
The man, Zorro, says to her, Emmeline Pankhurst
(these are the names they gave themselves as
strangers meeting in the airport bar),
“I feel so open and generous
and humane after making love
like that. Even if it is on aluminum
and mirrors over blue water. Can I say
something, Emmeline? I want to tell you something.”
She smiles him: go on.
“Watching the Broncos game back there in the airport
bar, I thought: making those women do that
cheerleading is sexist! And cold. But look here -
I'm not against an ostentatious display of skin.
And I'm not a puritan, believe me, I'm a hedonist,
and I say: what about men as cheerleaders, too?”
“I was hoping you'd say something like that,”
says Pankhurst. “I thought you were a good guy,
back at the bar.”
“Well, can I say it simply, no nuance, no stalling?
I'm sick to the gills of sexism. Anyway, I know
there are women - men too - who'd love to see men
out there undulating to a touchdown. I think the pilot
of this jet would. He gave me that look, I think.”
“This look?” Emmeline turns to Zorro; her eyes
roll still, into sharp focus; green diamonds in a stream.
“Yes, that one. Like this one,” says Zorro; his eyes like
warm chestnuts, roasting on an open … you know.
“So, Zorro, shall we repair to the Room of Blue Waters?”
The jet, contageous with generosity and humanity
goes above 30,000 feet to 60,000, and then into orbit;
everybody smiling
free drinks
stars in their eyes.
