This is the voice that the plane makes
as it wades through the cloud.
A turmulous dull roar that you know and need.
Its flight is like join-the-dots.
One to ten.
There’s no difficulty about it
except not killing everyone on board
and a few on the ground too
This is the voice that I make
as I sit here on my drawing perch.
It’s cold and I’m confused.
Looking at planes all day seemed like just the thing to do
an hour ago.
I have too many choices, it would seem.
Like join-the-dots without the numbers.
So I whine and complain
and my passengers never get anywhere.
Where were they going in the first place?