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Gander
It was 95 degrees inside the hanger
When he came walking with pockets packed
Full of bolts chromed in metric anger
—Yelling became the standard
And while the more entrenched his rage became
The more Dandy the Gander
His face would turn beet red
Before swearing to dead gods
That we would soon be bled
—it was something to see
He worked a plane job,
Not a plain job by any means
And the sane still say
That when the aircraft was grounded
It would make him take off
Right Into a rage like red stratus
That he would never admit
He enjoyed flying through
We were all just obstacles
In his impossible gauntlet,
Just sport for him
with no score
No announcer
Or team to root for
Never knowing what’s in store
We simply existed
I guess in a way
He would fix those planes
In ways he could never be
He might see them leave the ground
In ways he never could
It’s sad when you think about it
—But damn
It would piss him off
if he knew we were thinking that
