airbag I

Aerodynamics no. 1

I fear open spaces, waver at blind
corners, quicken my step, head down,
hair uprooted like trees, ears boxed,
tears squeezed from half-closed eyes.
I hate this wind that pushes at me,
unravels days like it’s caught my thread.

My father, aerodynamicist, loves
the wind. He gifted my school a hi-tech
anemometer, spent his long days
watching fine powder swirl and play
over models in his wind tunnel,
paper leaves dance in a train’s wake.

Once I am sheltered safe, ears warmed,
nestled in, shielded by double-glazing,
I love to hear the wind howling outside.
Raindrops are flung against the pane,
birds are led through a desperate tango,
while my father brings warm, sweet tea.


© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2010