We each propel our own way toward the end.
It’s how we compose the sky, I suppose—
fly, glide, freefall, try somehow to suspend
in space, or challenge somersaults—close
that last landing with grace. Fresh from high school
you joined Airborne, leaped out of a tower
your third day; parachuted that vast pool
of air, possessed by gliding’s dazed power
till you broke an ankle. Basic training
found you again on the chitlin’ circuit,
then London taxied you down that draining
runway to Monterey and fame. You’d sit
with guitar and a caring woman (worth
more to you than cash): keys to a song’s birth.
Roger Armbrust
November 5,
2013
