Beetlebung and Kettlehole--April Poems

The Last Myth I Believed

Sunday morning…
his image parachutes
against crosswinds,
through the contrails
of his bogus claims
like jets in an air show
flying blind inside
close-formation acrobatics.

A strange spectacle
this go-around, and then,
one huge forced landing.

In zero visibility,
this charade of cruising
at high altitudes was
the last myth I believed.
Yet, I’d rather zoom,
circle, and tailspin
through turbulence
on feigned skyways
than drift, ditch,
and dive to the ground.
Now, who can spell me out?