Occasional flight

BLUE SCHWINN

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.

9.11.15

Flight 93 Memorial (from www.britannica.com)