Poetry |
Jets
(under the flight path/SF to LA)
A Poem, by Art Goodtimes
pale from last night’s burn. our bags damp with the chill of a land not our own. We wake without song.
The sky bleeds
Redwoods swaying in the wind
Then we hear it. The vaporous whinnies of engines!
Jets clutching in their talons
Startled bluejays screech & rage.
While
Somnambulists poised in their silos
Union of Street Poets (Ret.) Kuksu Brigade 4may50001 ©
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