And there it was, in a thousand pieces
from only one plane.

It crashed to the floor,
and my heart the same.

An emblem—not of a machine,
but of a figure and a broken dream.

My life wasn’t his, nor I him.
I never came close to the world he was in.

It tore me apart, the day that he died—
a friend, a role model,
a really good guide.

So I bought scale models so I would remember
a day at the airport, that cold September.

He showed me his work, his life, his friends.
I stood there in awe, and proud to the end.

Paco Rabanne, and some Old Spice too.
He thought that eighties fashion was new.

Striped sweaters, so much beige.
Jet fuel, I learned, smells like aftershave.

He’d tell me now: sweep up the pieces.
Get on with life—don’t be an eejet.

Take care of the living.
Store memories dear.
There are many Septembers
left to shed a tear.