Our house was always full of
strangers dragged home by my father.
They’d kick the beanbag, slouch
in it, then out of it
to the table. My mother made fruitcake.
Fresh out it steamed into the kitchen air.
These two are from Canada.
The shadow of the tall one darkens
the screen-door, his beard is blonde
he chooses a chair under the print
of White Island. His friend
has aviator frames and a scar
at the nub of his thumb-knuckle.
Really, he says, it was no safer
than any other airline.
Only twenty were built versus thousands
of 747s. Probability not engineering.
One doesn’t say the Concord.
My mother pushes pink florets
onto her almond-scented canvas.
If you can’t say something nice
don’t say anything at all.