Mitchell's Gift

A life I’m glad I did not know,

Lives on inside a plastic dome

Atop a metal fuselage for flesh.

Fifty-cal. and cyclone motors,

Glossy paint and jet-black rotors,

Make the frame seem almost fact’ry fresh.


The hangar doors were half-ways peeling,

Showing metal mounts, revealing

The archaic sky steeds of world war.

Three World War Two planes stand aright

Pronouncing the upcoming flight

For which wealth had greatly been spent for.


A rush unseen moves me forward

As the wing-mount cyclones murmured

To an ancient rumble of a sound!

My friends and I, joined by this life,

Soon forgot all earthly strife.

Among the clouds we now all abound.


Never shall I, will I, forget

The sight that my eyes met

As a fraternal brother drew near.

A blue and glossy brother made

A short while quietly laid

Near our tail while brotherly motors cheer


For a short while, returning

Thrust me into such a yearning

That I might heavenly mount again.

Flown I have, yet not quite like this:

An experience of old-fashioned bliss

Like flying in a breathing, living plane.



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