The Queen of the Skies retired,
Long live our runway king;
Her assignation had three names,
It’s best not to question pretence.
Eulogies for a fuselage,
Front pages in the press,
But forestries are macadam
And all the workers left.
Newsreaders are enthusing,
A partisan casting and bribe,
Like praising skills of a killer,
Some words as sharp as knives.
They’ll read from flooded desks,
Drenched laptops and manilla files,
By sinking sails and tillers,
About my drowning bride.
If there is to be no more normal
Then I for one am glad,
When reporters refer to a body count
As records from an Olympiad.
Normal was overrated,
Kept me pacified and doled;
I would find a new future unplacated,
Blazing brightly, urgent and bold,
Which unites the common purpose,
A worldwide convention with soul and mind,
Which unbottles potential from the normal,
And greater rewards there we will find
Than the politico and press combined
With chancellors and professors
Could not imagine in their time,
And we halt the hidden transgressors.