Ch. 2: South to the Rio, and Beyond
Jackson taxis to one-eight.
It's just dawn.
He mutters to himself—
Cessna one-eight-zero-five-three departing to the south,
he pushes the throttle to the wall,
lets off the brakes. The one-seventy-two
eases down the dirt runway.
Airborne, staying under five-hundred feet AGL,
steering well clear of Tucumcari,
keeping the sun on his port wing, he hoists his flask—
Here's to the first oft the day—nik, nik, nik,
touching the Colt forty-five under his arm out of habit,
raises the flask one more time—
Here's to you Dewey-boy. Indians.
Poetry by jim
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Written on 2015-05-24 at 03:06
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