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.