Don’t show me a plane ticket
Without first saying, “Now, Jim,
I’m going to show you a plane
Ticket. Sit down if you have
To.” I’m not sure how I’ve gotten
Spooked about flying. I’ve not
Been in a near miss, not even
Near a near miss. And it’s not
The flight itself nor missing
Connections which happened
Only once. I think it’s just a
Fear of the unknown—leaving
My base of operations, the pets
Who provide me so much
Stability. Usually I’m good
Among strangers—the other
Passengers on the flight. I
Imagine walking up and down
The aisle saying hello and
Reducing the strangeness.
In my dreams they cheer and
Plead, “Read us your work.”
Like that’s going to happen
Anytime soon. Or, “Write
Us a poem, baby,” or, be still
My heart, “Young man, I’m
a publisher. Here’s my card.
We’ll have to talk after the
Holidays.” That would just
Blow me outta the plane,
A career cut short in its prime,
Be careful with your expressions.
So I get to my seat between
Amy Adams and Nicole Kidman
Lookalikes who beg for more
And right in front of me expunge
iPhone pix of their very handsome
Beaus, texting, “So long, Terry/Brad,
I’ve finally found the one I’ve
Been looking for. It was really
Very nice. But if he has a heart attack
When we get naked, I’ll call.”
Of course that kind of thing is
Not going to happen. I’ll take
A seat between a lady with a
Very sick or irritated child and
An NFL player who just got
Dumped and is going to try
To stay rabid drunk until he
Gets home. I won’t mind the
Vulgarities except for the
Madonna and child so I remark
“Could you please mind your
Tongue,” and lo, she replies,
“Keep your business the fuck
To yourself. This ain’t even my
Baby. His mom’s in the slammer,
And I’m taking poopie-diapers
Here to the grannies.” Mr ex-NFL
Calms down, starts to cry that
Drunks cry, wipes his face on
My shoulder, “Hold me, please.
I’m so alone--such a failure.”
Are you getting the picture? Not
That it happens that way all
The time but it could.
c. J.S.Manista, 2015
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