Johnny Meyers

My friend
John Ryan Dobbs,
an air traffic
controller,
says pilots are
the only truly
happy people.
If they get
some time
in the air
then that is
all they need.
They don’t make
mistakes
he says.

I knew a kid
in high school,
Johnny Meyers,
who, though he
was small, had
bigger, more precise
dreams than anybody.

He loved planes.
He always had.
There was never
any doubt.
He wore a
newsboy cap and
an olive green
jacket with
golden wings
pinned to
the pocket.
When a plane
passed over
he’d stop the
conversation,
stare up
and name it.

Johnny had a
high voice and
it seemed like
puberty would
never happen
to him.

Presumably
puberty could
and did happen
to Johnny
but I like to
think he escaped
the pickling
and souring
of growing up.
Sure, Johnny could be
drinking Milwaukee’s
Best in a Ramada Inn
in Amarillo, Texas
alone right now
but I like
to think that
today Johnny Meyers
is up in some sky
somewhere

happy.