Like the Wright Brothers staring at a shitload
of bicycles and gears in their crowded shop,
honing the box-spring design into something new
and jumpy
Burt Rutan flips his mental roledex
through a thousand glider designs built in the
suburban garages of western glider enthusiasts,
scratching his grey hair and smoothing
lambchop sideburns, something of a cross between
Isaac Asimov and my great-uncle Roger
Doing it for the little man, the entrepeneur so celebrated
in American annals, though neglected of late
the stick and throttle man sticking it to
the fat assed program members
ensconced in their Emerald City
of wires, gimcracks and geegaws
the rocket and its outer supporting airplane thin
and skeletal joints stretching through the sky
like some young boy`s dream of how things
ought to be, no unneeded space or part on this
garage built wonder, a synthethis
of practicality and beauty,
the Apple of the rocket world
And I think from the bustle of my classes
if I was 12 and I saw this happen,
this would have changed me
I would have wanted to do this,
to be of a generation
who will fashion rockets
beyond outer edges and further
