I see a child with one hundred pounds
of brick and iron loaded on his back.
Alone with a father who daily flew
above the clouds in a small plane filled
with younger manikin dolls.
There were miracles sewn into the
shoulders of his leather pilot's jacket
but those arms never held you.
At home on the mantle a bottle of
cheap vodka celebrated life every
evening. By nightfall you were
flying high but not as
a respected pilot.