29th September, 06

Time
seems to stand still
when you are staring down
the inside
of an air-sickness bag.

With one hand he
covers his eyes, with
the other he holds it
up to the edge
of his face, frozen
into place,
with the knowledge
that there was nowhere
to hide.

Voices ring
in his head, but
they mean nothing,
merely words,
casually tossed up
in the air, and falling
back down like buttons.

They no longer seem
even human,
the voices;
they play
out in his head in a
mechanical drone,
the sour-metal tone
of a robot, spewing
useless information, like
the slot-machines at
the fairground,
that predict
both your weight and
your future
for a pound.

“Research shows,”
says the voice,
“that one would have
to fly every day
for fifteen thousand years
to statistically be
involved in an aircraft
accident.”

Sadistically, the statistics
are almost always wrong,
but the voice goes on —
“You are far more
likely to get flushed
down a toilet than burn
while air-borne. Your
weight is 45 stone.
Thank you and have a nice day.”

He turns his head
sideways. Shapes appear
in the window
but he looks away.

In the distance, two
planes cross
each other,
like fireworks from the sun.