Westbound Seven-Four
By James MacNutt, (macnutt@uniserve.com)

        

                Here we sit
                Galloping near silently
                In the thin band between earth and space-
                Toward a sun stranded
                In the western sky.



                Behind us,
                Three hundred tons
                Of metal, plastic, wire,
                A small sea of fuel,
                A brand-new Benz
                And 320 souls,
                Each with lives and purposes
                Of their own.



                And continents slide slowly,
                Invisibly
                Beneath our wings,
                And oceans heave,
                Their cold, black hearts unforgiving,
                And we race, untouchable,
                Just Mach shy,
                Before the frigid wind.



                Insulated in our skyborne city,
                Flung like a dart
                By some unseen giant.
                Skipping on the exosphere
                Where time dissolves
                And dreams are made.
                            

Back to Poetry Index