The Cargo Cult Poem by David Rowe

Of my backwards heart
leads me to believe it's all real
simple: just go & hack away
the tall weeds & brambles
to clear the old runway;
next, illuminate
its length with plastic jugs
of lightning bugs;
then, climb into the control tower
of discarded cardboard,
put on coconut shell headphones,
& wait
for her- the young lady
with a precious stone hung from her navel
& portable pedestals upon her feet-
to arrive aboard
the shiny silver bird
with her world's store
of grace & bounty
ready, once more,
to ruin me.