Once in the cockpit, she confessed her lack:
“It’s never been my job to run this craft.
There is no way to bring the pilots back.
So will you drive this thing yourself?” she laughed.
He emptied on the floor a bag of tools
and handed her a crude screwdriver blade.
“Don’t be too sure you’re following the rules
unless you know what game is being played.”
He pointed to a panel on the wall.
“Remove that piece and cut the yellow wire.”
She asked him for a scissors or an awl,
but got instead a sideways-cutting plier.
She’d wanted something sharper for defense,
for she was certain that he would attack.
The screwdriver—but he had too much sense.
As soon as she was done he took it back.
The panel—she could use it as a club,
but she would have to do it in advance.
And that eraser could give her a rub.
Until he struck, she wouldn’t take that chance.
And ere that happened, how could she be right?
Aware not what he’d done nor might yet do,
for all she knew, God might have seen her plight
and sent an angel down to see her through.
Unlikely? Sure. Romantic? Oh, you bet.
And though he didn’t look the dashing prince,
he blew away what she had thought she’d get.
It didn’t take much charming to convince.
©2011 Louis A. Merrimac
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