Unrule

There has been no definite proof yet that we’re not immortal.

Our whisper jet screams ‘foul’ and smokes the cabin.

We are tenuous if anything. We belt
our seats. The First Class stewardess has no face.

Here in steerage we each get a turn to steer.

The joysticks they give us aren’t connected
to anything, we learn, except each other.

We would walk away like kings if we could stand.

The stewardess comes back and drops a comment:
‘Your joysticks,’ she says, ‘are also guns.’

We route and toot and shoot out all the windows.

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