Afloat with Gin

There’s no way
you’re getting me up there,

people don’t fly,
they plummet like rag dolls,

limbs akimbo, diving headfirst,
but you tease me off the ground

with hints of eye splitting views
from a flying machine afloat,

you say, with gin. I cling
to the edge, watch you pedal

for your life, legs in an awkward spin,
as we hover like angels with doilies

for wings, before we take off
into the proverbial sunset.