Sixty-six years and six months
My people set out sixty-six years and six months ago
Give or take; sure, liberties taken, but I'll give her back,
And if you want, they got a machine with occasional fact,
But back to forbodingly sixty-six years and six months back,
From where it began, when Mrs Mack wheeled out the TV set-up,
A foot tall, a foot thick, the TV-set set on its squeaky-wheeled mount,
Glory glory no more school work, giddily circling our chairs around,
Our eyeballs were gripped on the skittering image with tinnier sound.
Convincible Wilbur met able Orville so hard in the jaw,
It busted Will's hand and broke Orville's maw at their middle-west home,
Both seemed to feel there were no sounder sounds than primordial groans
Freely to rise, free as the sky, free as a soul freed from its bones.
But Wilbur lay dying from making the rounds with the Brahmins up north,
On his deathbed he choked that he swore at the wings of the Flyer he'd croak,
Now cared-for by lawyers, accountants who brought gifts of ink, pens and notes,
His brother said "sign or I'll kill you" I guess as a bit of a joke.
Sixty-six years and six months beyond the Kitty Hawk time,
Mrs Mack wheeled out the TV-set set on its squeaky-wheeled mount,
Glory glory no more school work, giddily circling our chairs around,
Our eyeballs were gripped on the skittering image with tinnier sound.
It felt profound, though what was Neil Armstrong going on about,
"one squawk small step for squawk man one giant leap for man,"
Kind someone thought to pack our flag to plant in the sand,
Stand and admire our airless, desert, promised land!
Sixty-six years and six months beyond when Apollo sat down,
When Mrs Mack wheeled out the TV-set set on its squeaky-wheeled mount,
Glory glory no more school work, giddily circling our chairs around,
Our eyeballs were gripped on the skittering image with tinnier sound.
Garbage truck man breaking for lunch from his garbage pick-up,
Put down his garbage-truck window and threw out a crumpled-up sack,
Landing about by the two yellow lines on the asphalt pitch black,
And half of us asked 'are we there yet?' and half 'will we ever get back?'
Copyright ©
Lawrence Strauss
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