The Jet

My first poem after I was married. Our son was 3 then. My son is the narrator.

A little boy was I, when I looked up high
Into a denim and pearl colored sky.

I saw a vast blanket of wandering clouds
Quietly floating by, stately and proud.

We were outside, to play some baseball
When I heard this different kind of call.

This bird flew over its wings didn't move
It had no talons, no beak nor plumes.

I'll never forget when I saw that passing jet
Dad said I could have one, if we wanted more debt.

All the people are the passengers, the plane
A commuter, returning to their domain.

My eyes never left this metal in the air
I couldn't even blink, only stand and stare.

We ran across the yard to follow the plane
Soon it would disappear, only calm remain.

Father asked, "Wonder where those people are from?"
Engines weren't heard- racing to the horizon.

And so now every plane or jet that flies by
Reminds me of that day when I looked up high.