Twelve O’clock High
My favorite wraith is at twelve o’clock high
My time to live, his time to die
My fuel gauge read “Not enough gas” when eye fought him last
My time to improvise, his time to realize an imminent demise
My mission was peaceful reconnaissance without hostile contact
My time to usurp regulations, his time to see hell’s damnation
My copilot no longer stirs and seems to be forever quiet
My time to straighten up and fly right, his time to fight for dear life
My ammunition ran low three dog fights ago
My time for short controlled burst, his time to retreat before things grow much much worse
My bartender told me to stick around and to keep my happy feet on the ground
My time to train for another day, his time to pretend that everything is A-Okay
My left aileron is shot up and has been stuck because eye hit a sitting duck
My time to wish for an online mechanic, his time to fly south and into a season of better luck on another planet
My country picked me to fly and fight from sea to shining sea
My time to buck up and do what’s right, his time to check his six and hope eye don’t have him dead-to-rights
My girl is my world, her picture is somewhere around this cockpit of blood, guts and clutter
My time to concentrate on things that become a fighter ace, his time to disintegrate just before entering neutral air space
My landing gear is hereto completely inoperable because eye jammed it into my dear old friend’s once intact, combat ready canopy
My time for an emergency crash landing, his time for deeper ethereal and aerodynamic thoughts of understanding
My favorite wraith is at twelve o’clock low
My time to live, his time to go
Captain Orrin K. Loftin, Explorer
Copyright? Twelve O’clock, September 2010
[Dedicated to Captain “Big Rick” Lofton and Colonel “Vic-Raven” Lofton]
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