Burned

We sat outside in the dusk
flicking cigarette ashes 
into a coffee can,
rusted out by
weather.
The screen door
swung on its broken hinges
and squalled like
a newborn baby
red-faced and 
dying.

Filling our lungs up
with smoke 
so we could maybe float
for a little while,
hover above the
cracked cement
and stone.

I'd read in the newspaper
of a pilotless plane.
A red biplane 
that took off by itself.
Just like a mechanical bird
arching into the sky
above the verdant fields
of Ohio.

And I thought
aloud to you,
I wish I was a red biplane.
My lungs exhaled 
burning smoke,
pungent grey
and you laughed.

The plane flew until
its engine gave up,
the fuel tank gave only fumes.
It burnt out into
a red smudge
on a farm.
And I wondered where it
had wanted to go.

Watching the burnt out bodies
of our neighbors from
the porch,
each day,
and somedays
in the drought we watched
the irrigation rigs
cleanse and feed the soybeans
across the street.
A field
just so like the one
my red plane came to rest in.

You picked up your sweater
and walked away,
waving a limp hand.
See you tomorrow, 
as always
as always.