Vacillation

The pilot who happened to
look over to his left
follow the leg up and
see beneath the stewardess's skirt
averts his eyes,

Petrol burns
in the pilot's rocket
and through the jet's engine.

Rub the genie, asks what he wishes for:
the memory,
or the anticipation?
From his fingers
come only a small puff of smoke. He rolls
his silken sleeves, even fumbles with his lamp,
and each time comes with a different answer:
Being unspoiled and uncertain makes
you anxious.
There is satisfaction in doing the deed,
Wait, or is it in moment? Enjoying it then.

The hesitant aviator makes
his decision, unexpectedly
coming out on top,
he tugs on the hem.