Speeding to Alabama, I lose
my bearings, land in a pasture
somewhere in Mississippi.
Farmers from miles around arrive
in wooden oxcarts
to meet the man who can fly.
I give rides all day, lift them
into God’s eye view—
cotton fields,
red dirt roads,
board-and-batten houses—
all of Oktibbeha County
opens before us,
the church steeple adorned
with a single cloud.
At dusk I cruise a slow sunset
as if I alone could make the moon appear.
An old woman whispers: Mr. Pangborn,
how much would you charge
to take me to heaven and leave me there?