Bernoulli

The air pushing around the fuselage, Bernoulli at work, his arms stretching from the ground to guide our noses miles above his. And we, hoping his arms never tire.

Sometimes he stumbles, and we shake furiously. We're not even supposed to be here in the first place, are we?

And Bernoulli is an old man, his joints growing weak and his hair thin, breathing shallowly with lungs lined with the dusts only billions of miles can collect, his brow beaded with globules finer than crystals of refined sugar, running salty into the corners of his lined mouth. And while he sweats and toils to prove himself, I worry about getting a window seat.

And he strains
and I sit
And he strains
for a bit
of fame
And they sit
and complain.