One of the perks of flying economy
is the proximity to pretty young things,
Seat 12B to my 12A, barely legal
to sit so close. If married men across America
can shut their eyes and make love to Miley Cyrus,
parachuting from the Tuesday-night boredom
of their wives’ spread-legged layovers,
if cougars can prowl the bush below,
tipping lawnboys extra dollars to mow shirtless,
pardon my altitude-induced daydreams
of this Icarus who flits and darts around my heart,
who brought his pillow as a carry-on, who hugs it
from takeoff until landing, emo in his earbuds,
his waxy-drool pooling on my well-placed sleeve.

© Bryan Borland