Records are set and broken, reset,
broken again, just like fliers’ bones.
Men die learning to fly here in Texas.
And the lifespan of an army pilot overseas?
Two weeks. Maybe three.
To cheer up recruits, I stroll the upper wing,
do a couple of handstands.
It’s just a gag until Champ wants me to wing walk,
Uniontown, Erie, Atlantic City,
rain, shine, or cyclone, a thousand dollars a show.
I sign. When I slip, Champ grins:
Bandages are box office.