Plane of the forgotten frisbees

They

Reign

Down.

Like an occasional meteor shower.

pat!

pat!

pat!

Some, luckily roll back down.

Like a hoola-hoop skipping across a busy black-top

The others,

(The few, not-so-lucky ones)

Remain flush atop the plane of

Tar and tack,

After falling gently,

With the excess foliage that

Autumn always seems to offer,

 And now,

Flopping to a tired stop.

Coming to a temporarily

Infinite

Layover.

These formerly sky bound relics,

Eventually become permanent

Pancakes,

On a shingled stove top.

The former families of these, now

Unclaimed reclamations,

Don’t mourn their misplaced plastic companions.

But instead,

They marvel at how impossibly difficult it can be to draw one,

Let alone make

That same perfect circle

Fly.

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