To Dædalus, from Icarus—
          in the airport at Mykonos:

’Was running for the gate
     when his words fell on me
     so many dollars short
     and days late; I heard him
     say once in this same place
     how it’s tradition we

Always run our ways we
     choose from here, narrow gates
     close to coming down place
     such weight, nearly crush me
     when I make escape him
     and his mem’ry, too short

To contemplate; those short
     one-liners he’d said, we
     repeat when missing him
     and looking back, the gate
     was his loss crushing me
     his son went down some place

Not knowing where to place
     his baggage, daylight short
     in the fall, ’dawned on me
     ’was with him still, and we
     would never be lost, gates
     closing, hell taking him

No, nothing could stop him
     not even pride of place
     defiance opens gates
     said his eyes in the short
     time we traced the maze we
     made; taught flying to me

And winking, flew from me
     someday I’ll follow him
     to that face, the one we
     both had, back to that place
     where life was not too short
     but a rush for the gate

     Not wax, not feathers; place
     on my back my dad’s short
     life, and I’ll navigate.