Some ticket holders salivate for a scorched fuselage.
They sprint across the field, seize
fragments of an engine, twisted wires,
torn cloth, all the splinters of aspiration.
Men—and women, too—will grab
a bloody cap, leather gloves, a collar and tie,
carry them off as if the flier were a god
and these were disguises, everyday,
earthly things worn in the sky.
If a pilot dies, I remove the body,
burn wreckage on the spot.
Hell’s delight, the gate doubles the next day.