Two illnesses, a flipped coin, and the rest,
they say, was destiny: some planes just crash.
As Waylon, Carl and Tommy headed west
they didn’t see the momentary flash,
and on they drove, their heater broken, tired
of winter dances played to yokel crowds.
“He could have fixed the bus but went and hired
a plane instead. His head’s up in the clouds,
I tell you, Waylon.” Tommy’s voice was cold.
“I’ll play the Moorbank show, if they can thaw
me out, and then I’ll quit. This gig was old
last year; the bus is just the final straw.”
So Waylon drove, and cursed the dazzling storm
and wondered if his airplane seat was warm.
Christopher Hanson lives in rural Australia with his wife and two-year-old daughter. He is a high school English teacher by trade, and a musician by passion. His poetry has appeared in The Shit Creek Review, Bringing Sonnets Back and Worm.