Thirty Five Thousand Feet Over Omaha

“This would never fly in New
York,” he informed

I didn’t say anything.

“Seriously,” he started in again.
“In New York—“

I interrupted him, reaching over
and pulling open
the emergency door
and unfastening his seat belt
for him. He’d been sitting
in front of the right wing
propeller, telling me
about the vast number
of collections his body
of work was in, worldwide.
He was lucky.
His body flew fine
everywhere it went.

He’d been critiquing the ham
sandwich he was handed
by the flight attendant
just before I decided
Omaha needed
an NYC boy
to culture them
with as many pieces
of his body
as the propeller could produce.

written on 01/04/2013 by: Matt Kane