The Pilot

World War I fighter pilots were heroic men
With often tragic fates. We’ve all heard the tales.
But there is one nobody remembers.
It’s about the fighter pilot who refused
To come down. He loved the soft clouds so,
Reminding him of his mother, and the cool
Spring air, much like a perfect meadow of flowers,
That he decided to live the rest of his life in the sky.
Ponderous, light, prancing over the tufts in full sun,
Even the dreaded flack from below could not
Touch him, even the famous Red Baron
Was loath to infect his paradise, instead wounding
Him only psychologically with thoughts of death.
Snakes, hippos, Einsteins, cuts of beef,
A cloud could be anything he wished them
To be, or not to be, even, for he was often sick
Of their company and dissolved them
Into abstract shapes, the kind a pink flamingo
Told him were becoming popular in the art world.