I sit outside on the dirty, raised concrete patio; I’m not allowed to smoke inside.
It’s December, almost Christmas, and the sun is fading, the last red burn before dark.
We live very near the gats of an air base, and a jet screams over, into the horizon.
Lying in bed as a child, I imagined being in them as they flew over, absolutely free.
The war goes on, somewhere else, somewhere out of sight, as we all, not affected,
go on about our lives, as if it was all the same, as if The Devil would never knock.
I imagined as a boy, and I imagine now, the force and speed of those screaming fighters,
as battle angels, as if invincible, as if you would never again fall back to the earth.
The jet fighters flies on into the distance, the last red burn before dark, and I now know,
they are not free, and the speed and the force and the battle angels are bound to earth,
but what powerful men build and destroy, and whom they serve, and all the gold they horde.
I still try to imagine, breaking free of this earth, flying into the night, absolutely free.