Always a Passenger

[Tiger the Lion]

(I suppose with this 3rd poem, we've got us a 9/11 series.)

OK Ray. You reeled me in.

Always a Passenger

 
I could never be a surgeon;
my hands tremble at the word.

I held a scalpel once,
but my nervous fingers
prefer the bulk of a box-cutter—
at least for grip.

I could cut you with sarcasm,
but only as deep as you let me.
 
Neither could I be a pilot;
these thin cigar tubes
still smell of sweet tobacco,
though it’s been banned for years.
My cravings could kill us all.
 
I'm not afraid to fly.
I'm afraid to fly you.
 
Trust me with your heart,
not your limbs.
 
I wake to a young man
performing surgery
where the drink cart should be.
 
There’s trouble up front
and my hands are not steady
enough to light my last cigarette.