walking through the hangar towering
over my head, the braces and the structure
all in view, as was the custom of
the military, nothing for show, all
for function, i wondered at the planes
being serviced, and the ones taxiing
out onto the runway, ones like my
father and the other pilots flew

roaring engines deafening me, i
hold my tiny hands over my ears, as
my father smiles with
his hand upon my shoulders
steering me towards the door on
the far side of the hangar

(back in the days before
safety rules would have made
such a visit impossible)

i never liked flying, never
liked the monstrous apparatus around
the things my father did, but
i liked my father, so
i did my best

through the door and up the stairs,
to a very military looking office
with cubicles, and a window
looking out over the flightline with
control panels like something
out of batman

now this i liked, it was called
“flight operations” and
i didn’t really understand what
went on there, but
it looked pretty cool to me

i’m eight years old, and
office work looks more fun to me
than flying an airplane, so
even then i wasn’t…

well