During a bumpy ride
I took the chance of
holding your hand in mine.
It was cold and white,
and only trembled
as you looked up surprised.
The small plane a sailboat
white too, with intent,
cutting through the clouds.
I thought in older days
men would have gathered
demanding your sacrifice,
pointing to your beauty
and pleading for their lives.
You would have nodded.
Instead, now, blinking fast,
you talk about the show
and what you’d do on the ground.
jam10
