The ship sailed West on
Sunday
The wind was too wild on
Wednesday
Our arrow plane rips the
paper sky,
severing space for
itself, its edges unfrayed.
Flapping fabric waves
airily
sewing smooth
loop-di-loops
prepared with packed
parachutes.
Cruising like a Caddy,
on the wide open highway
of the sky.
Her name-I love,
“Olive” was her name.
Born in barnstormer
days,
used in crop-dusting ways,
coasting through a Navy
phase.
Aloft over land and sea,
thirty owners later,
she took us up for a
spin.
By plane of bands, poles
and holes
Her martini body knows
the sky.
