The Last Shuttle

What will it feel, that last wedge of sunlight,
doors stretching open to the Earth,
a final bright embrace? Will she feel relief,
look forward to the nursing home; or maybe to stand,
regnant, on a platform by the city, on the water?
Will she slink home, grateful to have made it,
still alive? Will she regret when she feels her wings,
now become mere ornament, spread in the light
but never again to wave?

How will it feel, that slow fade of the afterglow,
while the crowds diminish; while the crowds pick through,
airplane, airplane, she, another? To be only a page,
something on a wall, behind glass. To age in the wind,
grow aches in her joints. For her crews’ grandchildren
to drive on by, tut-tutting at her lack of upkeep.
For them to drive on by. And across the pier,
people with radios pour into liners, not knowing
she watches, standing through leavings and arrivals,

and she stands, feeling the slow spread of the rust,
the slow loss of her name. A few look her up,
but tile by tile, decade by decade, she turns
into a thing of metal. Facades diminish
and are not replaced. And the day comes
when space is needed. And they pick her
bones away.

There should be a finality to her flight,
sounding trumpets, a proper note.
But that is not the universe she flies;
and the cargo she carried does not return.