FULL HANGARS

A pit stop
is a big top
for a grand show,
in a crooked pageant
that charms
with each blow

In hangars they hang on
to tough words;
crass policy
without compassion
for who it hurts

A roar from the crowd
in cheap attacks,
cheered rabid
in a gratitude of hacks

The mob bursts
in jeers of raged thoughts,
loading up
by the sound
of swift shots

Dividing the I
from the us,
feeds the ego
like drugs in a rush

Soon after a blitz
the flight is gone,
off to stir pots
and point out what’s wrong

A loud plane
ascends in the distance,
above patrons
and the call for resistance