I.
The mountains’ circle
deepens indigo. Day’s end
On the tarmac, yellow
vests among the planes
Walk to and fro: one
boy, curly-haired but maybe
Navajo—it’s Arizona—tells
some tall tale to
A cart driver, who
seems older than the rest—
Why still this job?
He listens, arms crossed,
Poker face. The boy,
smile widening
Nonetheless, mimes
giant stirring: cooking
Story, or concrete? Hitting
the punchline,
He breaks up. The old
guy hesitates, then
Bursts out red-faced,
laughs.
II.
Two—new
hires?—standing by, blonde
Ponytail and burly
friend, hearing the laughter,
Venture near. The
storyteller waves them in, nods
To the driver, starts
to demonstrate the gauges
On the cart, marked
Flammable, Emergency Fuel
Cutoff—tank, dark hose.
His joke about No Smoking
Makes them grin.
Cinched like a battered
Holster on his hip,
the old tools:
Ballpeen hammer,
wrench.
III.
In the distance, from
the mountains, the birds
Rise. Magnetic chip
in each eye scans sun’s
Slant, warning to
shelter for the night. The boy
Hears something—earphones?—then
turns
Abrupt and walks
away. The new ones
Follow, till the old
guy waves them back.
As if by some code understood,
he guns
His cart, heads
toward the planes
At a sharp pace. Frowns,
slows.
Down on the ground: a
soda can
Unclaimed. Not
stopping, leans
Out, snags it,
doesn’t toss it in
The bin, veers from
the planes.
He pours it out along
his way,
Slow careful stream.
IV.
The boy stands under
a huge wing.
He sees something:
the wheel,
Seeming so small
beneath, he
Kneels to, peers at,
almost sniffs,
And runs his fingers,
inch by inch
Down the rough tread.
Beyond
His head, clouds
settle now in
Crevices, but dark
can’t blur
The jagged peaks piercing
that
Veil. Far in the
west, a plume
Ash-colored—mist?—or
smoke?—
Snakes toward the
sky.
V.
He rises, satisfied.
Feet
Planted wide, he lifts
An orange day-glo
Like a torch. He
Hears something, then
Nods to the unseen.
Engines fire: gravity
Will be defied. He
Stands, the guide.
