The Flyers

For our last ride at Pop Pera's,
we climbed aboard a shaky white pod
bleeding rust around the rivets.
We braved the stinking diesel,
the twang of support cables
until we were aloft
cutting cool circles in the night,
each orbit faster than our last.

The bar latched across our laps
rattled as we rode,
but we were secure,
your outstretched arm our strength,
braced against the wind
as we flew 'round and 'round.
How you laughed
and swung the handle
of our solid, hinged sail --
one tack torqued us left,
another jerked us right
as if dogfighting
the pods in front, behind.
You were the daring pilot
every son dreams of.

I forgot about cables
and spinning metal poles
when we climbed above
the rustling maples,
glided across Lake Erie's
foaming breakers,
streaked through a black sky
flecked white
with flitting moths.

Scott Speck
12/31/2001