Airplane

He was smaller than me and blonde.
He was light and elfin, with quick hands and a knowing smile.
He was innocent and childlike,
slow speaking and sure of himself for such a young man.

He worked on his car parked on the hot blacktop of the parking lot,
while I drank beer and made him laugh.
He sold that car to a friend before he left town.
I would see it around, black and gold and fast,
with someone else at the wheel.

He has been gone a long time now.
We were just kids back then,
though I knew more of the world than he.
Back to the Midwest of childhood he went,
to build airplanes and reach into the blue.
I, left behind, found you.