A Revenant Hymn for the B‑52
Invocation
Born when slide rules ruled.
When glass burned amber.
When men smoked in mission briefings.
When “space age” meant orbiting dogs.
Eight engines. Two decks.
A wingspan like a deficit.
And still here.
Not retired. Not reborn.
Just—re‑engined.
Ascent
A stubborn grandfather.
Stitched and re‑skinned.
Showing up to every war.
A guest who never leaves.
It is inevitable:
He will still be flying—
—when his grandchildren are rust.
—when memories are void.
Seal
The world ended.
He never heard the toll.
Still he flies—
first as a relic, now as a ghost.
