Daedalus of Flight UA2287

I used to dream of sprouting wings
I used to, used to dream
of soaring, high and imperceptible,
with all the farmlands –
corn, soy, the flowerfields –
arrayed out like a crazy-quilt,
all splotches and angles.

I did not know what mankind does to dreams;
how hurtling through the sky, heedless,
could require months of planning and half a paycheck;
how tight and cramped the limitless spectacle could be;
perhaps a man should never meet his dreams.

Airplane Curry

We see it pushing through the tube,
plastic boxes, nearly medical, labelled with numbers or barcodes or
Something in-between, something few understand.
Chicken thrown to starving wolves
eagerly pawing white lids –
now, bleached rice, clammy and squirming.
Pale meat stained with the milk of highlighters,
this sickly paste,
Gone too soon.

What’s the deal with airplane food?