You sat Indian-style, barefoot, and tucked close to your 3-year-old co-pilot.
In goggles and khaki-colored overalls, you sped down the runway of the playroom,
soaring up toward the Benjamin Moore Blue Danube sky.
Frog-shaped flight plans, G.I. Joe manned air-control towers,
and monster-size imaginations were your navigation instruments.
Of all the cape-wearing superheroes, you ruled the world of make-believe best.
With pint-sized Band-Aid covered wings stretched wide,
you zoomed roller-coaster style around the Rockies, and across the desert,
communing with cotton-candy clouds,
deep into the afternoon.
That day, with the scent of old leather wafting through the cabin of the zeppelin suitcase,
you joined the Wild-West contingent of A-list aviators.
Spying a comic-strip adventure off the horizon,
you made a mid-air ninja leap, and a mish-mash parachute landing.
In search of something shiny and new, you ran off starry eyed.
Forfeiting the reigns of the cognac-hued single-engine, in all its tethered glory,
to your bewildered little brother.