The Mother & The Dream

How he loved his paper planes
the crease, the fold, and tuck
a pilot’s license he could obtain

He’d fold and throw, and throw again
watching swoop, and dive, and hooping arc.
How he loved his paper planes

His mother never could explain
her son’s being so entirely struck
with the pilot’s license he would obtain

His mother’s wish, a purple strain
on roo-like dreams bounding amuck
he really loved his paper planes

And so a postal worker he became
finding flight in letter husks
grieving the license he daren’t obtain

Now she’s gone, only her wish remains
he stamps his foot as colt would buck.
How he loved his paper planes
A pilot’s license he must obtain.