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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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