inauguration poem

At a certain height language cuts out
jet engines go dead
only a niggling plastic squeak
tells us we are still moving,
too high even for wind --
the crew listens nonetheless, wondering;

conversation among The Great,
The Deciders, Honchos in pilot get-up,
strapped atop machines of state
(with their own trajectories)
is mundanities, mundanities all:

when the engines die and things shudder
poetry still serves, useless
bloody wings spill
from luggage compartments,
their tendrils piercing shoulders,
squirming inside,
entwining with your bones for the
break-up of the craft, the jerk, the
screams, roar, cold air,
fighting free, bits, scraps, syllables, socks
whipping and lashing.

When words grip your shoulder blades
and force you up, flapping,
dignity gone, desperate --
poetry has struck.

1-19-2009 Madison, Connecticut