Classic Poem

There is of course the nervous question of the airfoil;
Laminar flow through the headphones where wave-torque
Puddles the brains of my seatmate; awful

Rockaddle; also, missing shards of crockery tucked
Behind our unplugged refrigerator, as bits
Of Mars are littering Antarctica.

Consider, too, the impudence of fluids,
How when my double gurgles off the little iceberg
Of its highball, one drop often finds the eye. Follow it

Where the penny, bouncing from the urban cobble, spark
In a pocket, arcs elsewhere, and winds up spinning
From the Bridge of Sighs. Let's say God's spigot

Needs a washer, which you, while explaining
Physics to a friend, supply. Chaos ,
is all , you yawn, sleepily — not in the splenetic

Literary-critical sense, requiring Icarus
To fall and fall and fall, but rather in the rinsing,
Sundog, water-scatter sense, here in the cirrus

Of it all, that pure ebulliance we're (as
The bubbly flight attendant says) experiencing.