When the plane went down, at night, in the desert,
The cargo hold burst
And a few things were thrown clear.
It's cold in the dark, in the desert,
And after the hulk burned itself out,
Three heart beats remained in the shadows.
The one with the injured head would fade out with the moon, before morning.
The broken arm would envy suitcases, rocks, anything that does not know pain,
And a third sat silently, and ridiculously, unhurt.
Some Mexican dolls in crates;
Some California video games,
And a sled bound, like them, for Boston.
They burned the sled,
Trading the sky back for its snow, sending smoke this time instead;
Then the dolls,
Which seemed far too close to the bone, but they used what was at hand
Because they hadn't any choice.
In the morning,
It grew hot. One was dead.
The sun rose yellow in the sky like an advertisement for a morning newspaper--
Sports final, funnies.
They sat where they had found themselves, like broken weather vanes.
They sat amid the video games,
All that was left,
And tried to decide whether to wait or start walking.
For them, the decision meant everything.
The sky was a silly blue,
As blank and unconcerned as the face of a child holding a magnifying glass,
And whose kindness stops
At the end of his own nose.
for magpie 44