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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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