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The Great Yellowstone Fire, 1988
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Again the water-bombers wing by
And the bar floor sags to hear
them land
Off compression, sharp-wheel
skid.
The Legionnaires break elbows,
One vet to another, their
gray hair
Blond, the sun red like one
Giant meatball of the Zero.
Near Yellowstone only a fire
Of apocalyptic dimensions
Could bring such planes back
From when America stoked
The Arsenal of Democracy--
TBFs and a PBY,
Multi-bladed killers,
Flecked bellies growling
From borate stew.
Townies are grateful,
If a bit unsure of their
history.
All roads west are closed.
The streets crawl with minor
league
Refugees walking to be
Walking, hardly believing
Their vacation's become
A "National Geographic" war
zone,
Where a black market has
sprung up
For crack and ice cream
And scalpers guard the only
theater.
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Writer
Bio
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Winner of the 2001 Writing Award from Mid-America Press for "The Graveyard Picnic" (Fall 2002), William Ford has published poems in numerous publications, including Poetry, The Iowa Review, Pennsylvania Review, Southern Humanities Review, and Tennessee Quarterly. He was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 1994 and teaches at Kirkwood Community College in Cedar Rapids, Iowa.
wdford2@juno.com
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Other
Pedestal Published Works
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