Parkinson’s Flight

   by Caroline Johnson

Such a long way to go
and the driver looks tired
big engine jet, shiny, not new,
gassed up for flight in a crowded sky.

He used to fly solo
with a bomb in the back,
never gave out directions,
never cracked under attack.
He looks out the window, a passenger now,
thunder sound in the distance,
plane turns to take off
all eyes look up and pray.

He closes the book he's been reading
and looks straight ahead,
not dreaming but reminiscing,
a fallen pilot now resting,
a veteran in flight
on a jumbo 747 to Denver…

Yet just awhile ago
gray eyelashes stuck, feet stumbling,
body drifting in the bushes from a fall.
Hand gnashed, skin torn,
a bandage to show the damage.
Buttonholes fumbled, shoestrings tangled,
zippers now a struggle, hand tremoring to an
unpunctuated gait.  

Now everything is like throwing a snowball on a well-lit fire.
The ashes of his youth lie scattered.
His pride kindles sharply, melting under stress--
he chews slowly because
the pilot is tired, yet

still determined in resolution,
still awake in constitution,
he bows his head, giving forth light from within.
		
The flight attendant passes by
touches his shoulder with a sigh
and asks, "Are you all right, sir?"
Gyrating and with a stoned face,
he nods--a smoky, shaky dream--
a hero on a wheelchair team,
entering another cockpit world
he salutes his Captain with solemn grace,
accepting All that is his fate.