Air America

The cockpit of the Cessna

was filled with the smell

of badly digested wind

and perspiration as we droned

high above the jungle,

and he talked about whores

as I traced a line on a map

with my finger and marvelled

at his confidence and

nonchalance with the controls,

and asked how many

flying hours he’d amassed:

‘About twenty’ he replied;

I was impressed ‘twenty thousand?’

‘No – twenty…’

I could just make out

the small airstrip

by the side of the mountain

in the fading dusk

and opened an air vent.

John H Davies

2nd April 2011