The purpled Dakotas and their
Drift by like initial romances
And the bored rush of a midday flight
Sets in the cabin like spilled sodas.
And having achieved humanity’s
Icaran dream, these apathetic 200
Grumble and pass the time
By sleeping or by ignoring
Their magical suspension
“because science isn’t magic,
And magic isn’t real,” they say,
With all the imagination of a textbook,
“and besides, my ass hurts.”
And they continue to stare ahead.
Of all the creatures to attain flight,
We are inarguably the worst,
For the wonder and the zeal and the
Raw unfettered excitement is tempered
By dull cynicism and explanation.
But if science has lost its wonder,
And magic been relegated to crusty
Old corridors of history and analysis,
Then Good God! What exactly have we
Earned our wings for?
I’d rather be a heathen suckled
On a creed outworn,
Than an apoetic passenger
On a meaningless numbered bird,
Drifting too close to the sun.