Though the mechanics have picketed,
the flights go off as planned. What do we
do now? Worry, drink, trust in the Lord?
Entering through the accordioned tunnel

as if embarking on some afterlife, we rise
to freakish heights for our hour of worship,
communing in a church that emits
a muffled roar, the deacons wielding

drink carts and chicken Kiev. The epauleted
preacher remains curtained, cosseted,
contemplating his sermon. On descent
we hear his sturdy baritone attempting

to scaffold our faith and feel blessed
by our proximity to God, or a little
woozy from the Bacardi, or maybe
frequent flying has bludgeoned our beliefs

and we feel nothing but a faint
poultry-induced nausea as we touch down,
paraffin wings intact, good children
obeying the whims of their fathers.