Left school at twelve, can’t follow physics,
I’m just a man stepping out on the law
of gravity, making my living leaving—
and reappearing. Morning, evening,
I am The Man Who Owns the Sky.
I fly over Niagara, down into the mist,
close to the whirlpools—whoooooeeee!—dart
under Honeymoon Bridge, soak my suit
as wheels kiss water. You call it suicide?
Risk improves my mood and the money’s good.
I burn my last drop of fuel to climb two miles
above Chicago, ride a dead stick all the way
down, proclaim the gospel of wings—
heaven pricked by human invention.
I spin a holy ruckus in the sky,
racket my blessing above root beer, red hots, popcorn.
Give me a hundred thousand pairs of uplifted eyes.
Amen.