Further report of the aviator: Air Force One's a lonely gig

         

  Does it seem entirely fair,
  that the military adjutant
  gets to socialise with the
  swells on the dining patio
  at Mar-a-Lago, dazzling in
  possession of his nuclear
  launch code briefcase - in
  rough Republican hide, one
  supposes, like Pat Nixon's
  famous winter coat - while
  the aviator ferrying that
  modest party has to loiter
  in constant readiness, to
  haul ass back to some base
  in suburban Maryland, with
  scarcely a fleeting nap?

  Of all the personnel deci-
  sions of this improvising
  government, this ranks up
  there with the Election,
  in conspicuous rashness.

     

  How forgetfully cast aside 

  our consciousness of the a-

  viator can be, under darker 

  provocations of the moment; 

  we need look no further to 

  consider, than to the oeuvre 

  of Mr Rothko, so seldom ref-

  lecting the palette of avia-

  tion, even though the world 

  may turn within it, and not 

  ungratefully at that. The 

  faultless calm of the pilot’s 

  concentration draws no notice 

  on the patio of dark ambition.

  But who could welcome there, a 

  spectacle of self-government?

  

Mark Rothko

untitled

acrylic on paper

1969