Classic Poem

Black above the world
It flies
Like an anger
In the skies.

Seven years it cursed
The light;
Horror of a
Nameless night.

Now the triple engine
Roars;
And travelers (as a
Matter of course)

Eat their lunch and
Do not see
The earth's involved
Geometry.

To them the world below
Is some
Pattern of
Linoleum.

To watch an hour or so
With eyes
Dead to distance
Or surprise,

Save (turning to their papers)
When
They read
The franc has fallen again.