Poem: Landing, or, Aviophobia, Part 26

The plane eases down from 36,000 feet
And as the ground rises up,
My aviophobia dissipates.

The closer we get, the better I feel
Even though earth, and not the air
Is most likely to do me in.

I could maybe handle falling 36,000 feet
In a screaming jet moulting its parts.
It's that last foot that does you in.

The landing plane could flip head over teakettle,
And burst into technicolor flames
As it cartwheels to a stop down the runway,

When I'd use my lifeless seatmate's
Head as a stepstool to vault
From the twisted wreckage,

And I would still sigh
With relief when my ankles broke
As my feet touched mother earth.
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