Love-making in Air

Black swifts in the sky
ascend, soar and glide.
They turn all about,
seem not to collide.

When feeling great joy
they scream and they sing.
They swoop and they love
to mate on the wing.

And we on our flight
are feeling the same.
We eye up the crowd
and drink our champagne.

With blankets above,
seats set to recline,
we touch and embrace.
Mile-high we entwine.

This freedom in air —
it must be our right
(despite paunches and fat)
to like sex at a height.