The Assassination Museum
By Andy Jackson


Air Band Radio

Each Friday, softened by wages,
he came home early
and lay dissolving his worker's grime,
the water rising and falling with his breath,
lapping in sympathy with the buzz
of his radio -
Not music but chatter
from the control tower,
the cocky few flying in for the weekend.
He knew their business -
diverted souls bound for Blackpool
or weathered out of Ringway,
in shells small enough to drop steeply
onto the green moss pasture
across the canal.

His sons passed out in rigid blue,
rank upon rank upon rank,
starting a life he might have wanted as his own.
He never saw himself in them
or them in him.

Crisply clothed in clean dusk air,
he watched alone from the turf below the tower,
stood at the wrong end of his binoculars,
his radio hissing gently on the car bonnet.
Noisy, tiny aircraft stooged above,
little wings, diamonds in the sky,
gleaming with every dip of their nose.
The mystery of their glass and silver skins
turned to china-cloth and plywood,
such a disappointment when you got close.



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