Left the army, bought a surplus Jenny,
you bet the ship is a bit of a crate,
no wheel brakes, bungee cords
for shock absorbers. The engine
emits a muted whistling clatter
from the valve springs, overheats,
spews fumes and oil in my face,
but I’m earning a living playing the pastures.
I hedge-hop into a town, buzz some barns,
land in a flat field. Rides, $3.00.
Long Rides, $5.00.
Locals with no cash trade eggs
or a couple of chickens.
Rides are routine. Flying upside down,
if the fuel fails to flow, I stall—
and a stall could be fatal—
split second by split
second, I baptize my act.
At night I curl into a hammock
slung under a wing, count the take.
Next morning, I follow a road or a railroad line
to another town, greet another set of folks
who have never seen an airplane.
Let’s get acquainted!