SLAM!

"Tenerife" 


Rain streaked down the windows
as fog blotted out the sun.
Bastard bombers divert the flights of fancy
to our island, to Los Rodeos.

Every day, I belted out numbers over the radio waves:
"Flight 4805, you're clear to taxi
to runway 30 then backtrack.
Wait for takeoff."

Fog and planes muddled the runways.
Lights on full power, scanning the field-
who could see the traffic in the white sea?
Pan-Am, KLM-two planes itching to leave.
Did I direct Pan-Am to C-4? Why is KLM lifting off?
I received my answers in a fire stream streaking the sky.

The smoke and fog mingled as our airport skidded to a halt.
Workers dragged bodies upon bodies from the metal as a lucky few
staggered from the rear of one plane (only one plane).
From the tower I stared, motionless with my hand on the mic.

The smoke and fog mingled as I lay in bed that night,
blanketed in a charcoal and white haze,
smothered in the rotten stench of fuel and flesh,
choking on my previous commands.

Fog floated around me as the days dragged by:
questions, the pink slip, mounting bills.
I spewed tepid smoke as I faced the music.
I dug five hundred thirty-eight graves.

The smoke and fog swirl in my head,
but as I huddle up, a light pierces through
as I curl my hand around my salvation.
I see the barrel of light.
Fire!