As they came past for the third time
I knew that something was up.
It was us – and them. Two sleek
pointy powerhouses alongside our
lumbering dully-painted fuselage,
their cheery, cherry red stars
shaming our miniscule roundel.
I looked at his space-age helmet
via my 50’s window
through the iron curtain
as he waved and peeled away
and shook our stately course
with his afterburners on.

Comments
CinCCO | March 17, 2008 - 15:42
Ah, but what of the quality of the pilot flying the old horse with the small roundel. You probably knew of the guys who had to fly the Berlin Corridor. All good quality men.
Nice poem to us who have some years on our backs and appreciate the meaning.