Mark Luebbers, “Air National Guard”

Plain corrugation of clouds:
amber, midwest, underlit,
proceeding stately above
the empty con-tower. Dark
panes like sunglasses looking
down on runic lines of tar
written into cracked tarmac.
Warthogs and Hueys dismissed
from the apron: cut up, mothballed,
or sold to convenient friends.
Trucks parked in the last standing
hangar and beset with sparrows.

Behind new chain-link, jacks
and backhoes have pulled
down the terminal into shoals
of cinderblock and linoleum,
sprouting rebar. The remnants
beholden to rising goldenrod,
sawgrass, and the province
of blackbird and red fox.

Wind folds around standing
antennae, in the spaces between
so many tools of an old trade,
while calm radiates with the day’s
heat. That which accompanies
obsolescence, with a state
of waiting: to be removed,
to be resolved according
to current affairs, our fears
having shifted to a new
imminence, and our
new responses deployed.

 

 

 

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