Overhead, the jets rumble the same roar as my father's truck's engine,
Same note, same volume, a nostalgic sound to my ears until I finally
Realize the reality of the situation, the roar, much stronger, in fact, is not
The engine of the man who bore me, but of a machine unfamiliar
To my driveway.
Some day, some place it will occur, perhaps it already has,
To a kid (or young man, I do not want to demean myself or my age)
Just as it did to me, that his father's jet's engine has sounded and finally
He has come home in an Armani suit far too expensive for my father
At this stage in his life.
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