The propeller rotates
and chops
the air and
I feel the wind on my face
I can still stare for hours
at the rotors and
the recycled images of trailing dust motes
hanging off like strands of Spanish moss
an act that summoned
deep from within you a Bronx Cheer
but she’s great and thank you
for asking
and though like you
she does not understand it
she knows
how much I need these moments of absurd solitude
Whit Howland © 2019
Dec 1, 2019
Dec 1, 2019 at 7:41 PM UTC
The propeller rotates
and chops
the air and
I feel the wind on my face
I can still stare for hours
at the rotors and
the recycled images of trailing dust motes
hanging off like strands of Spanish moss
an act that summoned
deep from within you a Bronx Cheer
but she’s great and thank you
for asking
and though like you
she does not understand it
she knows
how much I need these moments of absurd solitude
Whit Howland © 2019
Again a poem about a household object or fixture that launches the reader into a mini psychodrama.
