Up here,
the boredom leaks through his gear
and the dust stops
its constant evolutionary battle
against his skin.
The cooler air
pushes web and pouch and pack
aside
and the turbines
drum the magic of flight
in subliminal statements
of mechanical fact
into his listening bones.
Banking over the drab squares
of desperate lives
divided by the stale and crumbling
grid of a worthless town
the sweat dries in the slipstream
and if he reaches out
he can feel the air gather itself
against his glove.
The innocence of a sandcastle
from here, but below,
the walls are cover and question.
The sweat and breath
of dashes to jam
a shoulder against the bricks
that separate life from life.
To sight along lines of fire
with weapons solid
and eyes aged
in concentration.
Waiting for the elongated second
when it all breaks away
and the boredom compresses
like a spring and leaps toward
the flat cracking noise
that draws the shoulder blades together
and ducks heads,
too late to change its destination.
Posted by motorgyre 
