He talked about the early days

of airplane flight,

especially the racing,

some ramshackle crates

a pilot could barely

squeeze his flesh inside

but, once in the air,

they danced like Astaire.

 

You should have seen

those flyboys skirt the pylons,

he said, so close,

their wind ‘d shake

the b’jesus out of’em.

 

The story always ended

with the time

he saw an airplane

burn up in the sky,

plunge head first

into the middle of

the panhandle swamp.

Didn’t find man

or machine for days.

 

I figure it was just

the whims of sky caught up

with that unlucky sod,

tired of being blue and spacious,

it just wanted to be

close and muddy

and overgrown for a while.

 

Of course, that could have

described the old man then,

bog-brown and features cloying,

a regular quagmire, occasional

memories skirting across his brain

like dragon-flies.

Still, I listened, wide-eyed,

feigning interest.

I was a clear blue sky.

He loved flying in me.

 

— John Grey