free falling

in a moment of
insanity you decide
to jump out of a plane
over orange county.
you are in a rattling
small prop plane
with a boney old man
in a mustache at
the controls.
you have a silk
parachute attached
to your back. you've
been versed in the
act of jumping, of
floating, of pulling
the string, the backup
string, the emergency
string. you've said
your prayers and left
a note on the kitchen
counter. to whom it
may concern, it says.
take care of my cat
and split up the rest.
and as you float
serenely over
the quilted landscape,
of green plotted
land, of low trees
and sparse farms,
you turn to the pilot
and ask him if he
would kindly just
push you out with his
boot, you are not
the kind who jumps.
and so he does,
and away you go.