I see a child with one hundred pounds
of brick and iron loaded on his back.
Alone with a father who nightly flew
above the clouds in a small plane filled
with young manikin dolls.
There were miracles sewn on the
shoulders of his wooden pilot's jacket
but those arms never held you.
On the mantle a bottle of cheap vodka
celebrating life at noon. By nightfall
you were flying high with the saints.