Alan Hickman


From the cockpit of my Daddy’s jet,
Our lawn was just a green patch on the block;
But Daddy wasn’t looking down those days
He’d flown to Thule, in a plane that swam
And broke the ice. I’d seen the photographs:
The island of his features tipped in fur.

That year we lived in town when things went ’wry
My Grandpa sent a man to put them right.

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