Junkyard
Dented in, riding on the back of a flatbed truck
Like the carcass of a whale, the wings buckled down behind it,
Blackened and tragic,
This morning on the Interstate, a small plane
Passed me in the next lane.
The pilot could’ve looked at me,
At my car, his eyes in terror, knowing no way
To stop the wing from dipping down, touching,
Just slightly, the asphalt. An exit, left
Behind certain sadness and loss.
So I drove on, more slowly than before,
To work, to the monotony of everyday living,
And arriving there, could think of nothing but flying.
Originally appeared in Vintage Colorado Poetry
