It was just the other day I went looking
for those aviator sunglasses
that once belonged to my father
and found myself thinking of his story
about washing out of flight school
— Army Air Corps, Waco, Texas, 1947 —
the flight test he failed on account
of one moment’s inattention — or was it
hesitation — some intricacy about throttle
and stick — a maneuver that required
this counterintuitive sequence
of power, flaps and trim, to induce a deliberate stall.

He’d mishandled for a second, then recovered.
How it crushed him when
in a glance to his mirrors he saw

Tom Driscoll

Tom Driscoll, poet, essayist and opinion columnist lives/works in Framingham, Massachusetts.

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