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)
