The Old Plane Graveyard

My husband drives the highway past the old plane graveyard. Permission to visit once a dream, now his reward. He drools, as he studies the bounty before him to take. First the one that comes closest, but none he will forsake. He smiles as he watches the sun glint off the metal shapes. He will climb around slowly with his measuring tapes. To see in the cockpit he would give his right arm. But needs it instead to draw the fuselage with all its charm. He grunts and he groans as he crawls upon it’s length. He’ll count the rivets later after he takes a drink. Then back he’ll go to examine some more. There’re switches and gadgets, and baubles galore. He’s never been happier as he stares at the planes. To disturb him now would truly be a shame. He lithely runs between every plane. And he spouts about symbols and phrases hard to explain. He imagines them flying as only he could. Piloting the planes would be better than good. Occasionally his head pops up as he does research by the ton. He looks like a gopher as he searches hither and yon. Finally exhausted he packs up his gear. Now he’ll do research on the computer to make it more clear. He’ll know each it’s history. It’s date and it’s year. Even whoever commanded it, plus their bombardiers. The faces he’ll research to go with the names. And emblems he’ll find that once adorned this old plane. His friends from his club will go oh and then ah. Then they’ll ask him to share with modelers one and all. By computer the details will spread the world before dark. It will travel to people in every terrain, no matter how stark. And modelers will smile as they build a new plane. With details, and beauty, and history explained. Now officially remembered with a new life for the old. People now made happy will remember stories so bold. I end my refrain with a history newly rediscovered. An old plane’s life brought back, now on a modelers’ magazine cover. CSEastman and MAEastman