South Bend

The jet turned and the runway
feeds itself into his window.
Tires pipe licorice strings
into the dream of taffy pulled
across South Bend farm soil
to a level horizon bricked soft
by a grey wall of Michiana mist.
The world somehow whispered,
“See it for what it clearly is.”
Yes. As many years as he’s got left.
The reason he slowed down.
Scared now of mph.
Stalled.
An old man finds his past
lying down around his ankles
like a fallen pair of pants,
and it trips him every step.
In another day, he’d hit it
hard as this Airbus 320.
Speed would be an instant,
instinctual 175,
with 75,000 horsepower
to launch this building
over groundwelded clouds.
Today, he lets the plane take off
but he ain’t going anywhere.
Daddy needs a new source of fuel
to dance down this strip
like a wayward UFO
until final lift-off,
so death knows
it only owns
the end.