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ntry and Departure
The teapot's spout points up in a display
of steam and heat. The flak had hit home
after the airman had bailed out on scrub
he had mistaken for a landing strip.
Mother barely remembered the single
night stand through the haze of smoke and sirens:
the raid had been sudden and unexpected.
The son had also been in the cockpit once,
and been equally ejected. Messy business.
He now sits in a café at the end
of his runway sipping cold sympathy.
The leaves had had plenty of time to stew.
Quietly, with direct pinpoint aim, he dunks
the luxury of a weekly biscuit,
and watches the melting pink meringue
resurface to air and swirl in the stirrings.
Groundswell had left him swallowing the dregs.
All the result of being rather too flighty.
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