Sky Not Taken

Were I born unencumbered
by deadweight generations,
then golden hangglider,
prodigal patagium,
might have meant I flew ahead.

If I hadn't been groundlubbered
by antisocial capitalisation,
I'd be class ceiling spider
on a Soyuz from the slum
to Elysium, bluebloods overhead.

But a footpath to odd numbers
my glass bath gravitation,
treehouse ISS. Cher
lifer's gummed t'web of scum,
where the weightless ones are dead.