Hell’s first whispers, I’d have won a bundle
if I’d put money on Pang this year.
That’s old news.
He never signed with me, though I tried.
Pang’s sky circus played every state
before regulators shut them down.
So, Pang ups his game, takes off with Hughie
from Japan, unlocks the landing gear, wing walks
over the Aleutians in gale-force winds, drops
the last two struts,
crosses the Pacific in forty-one hours,
comes in hellbooting it for a belly landing
in Wenatchee, Washington,
where—wait for it—his mother is watching.
His mother stitched the linen fuselage cover
for his first Jenny.
(What is it about some men’s mothers?)
I’d be collecting a helluva bundle if
I’d laid money on Pang this year,
but I left aviation without a dime.
Catch me at the auto speedway,
killer track, thrill
a minute, slick straightaways
slide into banked curves.
Men will bet on anything
and I get a cut of everything.