He, too, was a tamer of horses: His plane was the Mustang. The sirens
would sing in the cities he sacked from the air, in Leipzig, that cluster
of doll houses, in Frankfurt, where Goethe was born, the searchlights
revealing the texture of clouds where his squadron lost one, no voice
in his earpiece, just static and flak now, the clatter of hail on a roof,
his ailerons juddering. Luck is the god who departs through the smoke.
Far from him now are the white-armed barmaids of Steeple Morden
as he bails from the fiery cockpit and yanks on the cord.
His parachute opens and wafts him, on an even
breeze, across the ocean, home to Cleveland.
There he marries. Takes his pug on walks.
Sells ball bearings for a living. Stares at
graphs and spreadsheets, seeing city blocks,
pens in neat rows, waiting on the airstrip.