Wind Pipe

by Len Kuntz

We land in a pipe,
caught in a curl of forced air.
Your mouth is moving.
Your lips are flat, faded stripes
hiking up their hems like a laundry line
whipped by the wind.
You are trying to remind me how we got here.
You hold up a picture of us.
The war had ended and a new one brewed
but we were tanned like varnished wood.
We hadn’t paid taxes.
We were so damn young,
bordering on unborn.
We held our resolve
in each other’s hands,
our loping gait down the church aisle,
unaware of the world shifting,
thinking it owed us something.