We wandered aimlessly.
As we toured all the South Pacific islands we could reach,
burning off fuel to be light enough to land.
Some piloted the two-hundred-ton B-52. Like cold war nomads,
we wove through the sky from place to place.
In the air we carved circles around the clouds, talked, ate boxed lunches,
and wondered which of us would write the story and a poem about it.
Look both ways,
unless you’ve been cleared to wander aimlessly.
Mind the gaps,
aviation is inherently dangerous.