Earhart's Blackbox

Sam Landry

Seagulls fly out to dive.
In Indiana our birds can block out the sun
if you're standing right below one
as it takes a step up from the dirt –
little specks of earth and worm, bolts
wiggled off, bits of scrap from who-knows-what
pelt your scrunched up face,
leaving welts and the occasional gash.
I took one of these hawks for a spin
out past the waterfront. 
I stopped at a few nice places,
and passed by a couple more:
Rio de Janeiro, Cape Town, New Delhi,
Lae, the Nukumanu Islands.
They toss chum
for famous foreigners.

The Islands are long gone.
I took a conch shell with me,
grabbed it on the way by.
It is sitting in my bag,
but I can hear it in my headphones,
the only reception I get
is a small breeze
that blows my hair over my eyes
as I lay under an umbrella,
sipping on a glass of water
as I discuss aviation with a colleague.

The glass dissipates.
A giant 'E' sits in the dash.
Darling, enough with engineering,
the blueprints are for shit.
Behind us sits an incline
and out there?
Southern California,
Sydeny for the lost.