Occasional flight


Out of the vernal vernacular,
low to the ground, weedy,
where the plane (on its way
to the White House) took a detour –

in the park, where the kids play
& choose up sides, & dream
of glory, & ice cream –
someone planted (in post-igneous clay)

a wedge of limestone, with an antique
bicycle saddled to
its pinnacle (blue
Schwinn, I think).  Joints creak,

wheels wobble in the barnyard breeze.
My kingdom for a horse,
cried desolate hoarse
Richard, knocked to his attainted knees,

blood-drenched.  Phrases mumbled
as we read along, in school –
Eli lama sabachthani... rue
the day – gave pause.  We fumbled

for our lunchboxes.  We floated
spitballs toward the furthest
pate.  Life in the West
was always evening toward sunset –

where Thunderbird lifts hefty wing
above snow mastodons,
& Mulberry Bay runs
rosy, toward plum Everything.


Flight 93 Memorial (from www.britannica.com)

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