There we were waiting
for something to happen. Our butts planted firmly
on that wooden grave marker in the park; feet flat
on the cement underneath. Herb and I like every day
sat and we watched the tiny aviators
put on their aerobatic spectacle in the sky, nose diving
into the glass abyss in front of us to catch a meal.

They did not care for our jobs,
or that we were dying. This bench
would be my resting place.
But what did it matter
Herb would continue to come
here to watch the tiny aviators. Diving
to get the target, bring it home to their families.

Rinse repeat. Rinse repeat.
Day in and day out these tiny aviators' work,
for nothing. To survive?
All of this work to just have to wake up and repeat it all
again the next day.

Up the hill and then back down the hill.
They were beautiful to watch,
Gliding through the blue and white background,
Swooping,
Dipping,
Diving,
They dropped from the sky
and gained altitude. They sure knew
how to put on a show.