Turn off the light,
it’s certain that eyes will adjust,
black severity broach blue
in the aircraft soothing hum.
Under the cover of night
this mission seems bearable,
cold steel round carrier shell.
Flicker of a “Lucky strike” match
makes this turret a moon lit
sadly misdirecting the tides.
Can’t believe in hope grounded
while rivets keep bombs airborne,
don’t want to land a wrecker,
metal popping with unnerving strain.
Aren’t those the bright lights
of the welcomed city visitor?
Lamplight never burnt that volcanic.
Three minutes left intact to flee,
to blank out, pray nothing lies beneath
the flak heading homeward.
Turn off the light mate.
