Fred Aiken Writing

pallets upon pallets 

stacked across the horizon,

each bearing a load that has no name,

each hoping to be shipped to a lovely house

at the end of the cul-de-sac,

where a Victorian stucco house sits

atop a hill with no one at home,

to be delivered another day,

still no one answers,

to be delivered another day,

pastel streams of jet fuel floating over the sky,

harkening in a new age 

of next day,

another day,

delivery,

but no one is home,

to be delivered, yet again, another day