From The Deep-Souf:
“Fer nigras doan-care none;
ah lern meh erleh, nevah trus’ a one.
Snow, over Thule; felt an engin’ crack.
Safteh-system shot. Almos’ blew mah stack.
Mah engineeh, a shif less culud man,
(with some whait-blud.) He dun a bes’ he can.
No gud enuf. He paniks: whar’s ma chute?
Man, if we ditch naow, it’ll be a Beaut!”
2 motors flaring stoked their raucous joke;
twin fans, reversed, sucked up stiff acrid smoke.
Wild rampage of his clumsy engineer
fouling the shrouds and tackle of his gear.
He’d jerked his ripcord blunt inside the plane,
hysteria smothering cushioned insane
ballooning bubbles of raw muffled silk.
“Man! That nigra. He turn whait as milk!”
Routine disaster over Labrador,
good engines feathering 3 outa 4,
flaming for minutes, fried past any bet,
yet made it into Gander, and no-sweat.
Hairy; scary. Though his canceled prayer
drains waste confessional:
“Ah jus’ doan care . . .”
Count or discount hours clocked inside 3 years,
time-and-a-half to prove or disprove fears
he’s hardly had the time to tag. So, —now!
Where is he?
In an air-corps, anyhow.