to Capt. Chesley Sullenberger
Hungry Hobo, pitiful gnome, shivers, parked
in the park of his infinite lack. Bemoaning her
(mirror-token of hysterical desire –
milk of phantom kindness – sign marked
absence). From the sky, meanwhile, one lumbering
50-ton aluminum bird-toy sinks tenderly toward
the Hudson... its pilot, with unimaginable fortitude,
guiding it carefully down to the silvery, slow-moving
surface. 153 men and women, and one infant...
and himself. To safety (shivering, awe-struck).
With their nets and ladders, the ferrymen's quick-
helping hands lift each (one-by-one) from buoyant
slow-submerging wings, frostbitten stream.
And through the icebound, torpid circulation
of his own bituminous heart, an intuition
turns, slightly. It's Hobo's minuscule dream-
aircraft – a bivalve catamaran of glinting light.
Alien teardrop, caught in the corner of an eye
(its name is charity). Inkling or memory
of yearling gratitude, for simple sight
and sound. For taste, and touch, and scent.
For quiet home, mild voices, sunny afternoons.
Grateful to breathe and be alive (someone's
darling). Hobo turned, and paused, intent
upon his insight. A scratchy fiddling overhead
(of winter oak-leaves) accompanied his meditation.
And the snow on every side seemed to shine
like polished stone, like a mind renewed.