Despite that you
wrote your name
and number
on its fuselage
in magic marker
neither your quiet
hours at the kitchen
table assembling
it with glue
nor your choice of
paint and lacquer
nor your seemingly
equally perfect
choice of a seemingly
breezeless day
for the launch of
your ambition
nor the thrill
of its swift ignition
nor the heights
it streaks
nor the dancing
way you chase
beneath its
dot
across that
seemingly endless
childhood field
will ever be
restored to you
by the people
in the topmost
branches of whose trees
unseen
it may yet from
its plastic
chute
on thin
white
string
still swing.