FL 91, Waiting for Repairs (Barf Bag Poem #8)
One disgusted executive scowls, arms crossed,
angry enough to spit nails, or chew
and digest them with an acid stomach churning
the rage of a missed rendez-vous in Atlanta.
Airtran offers precious little solace: ice water,
apologies and a “see you real soon.” This causes
wonderful unexpected conversations to develop
between humming housewives and radical students.
Given the choice, most stick to cell phones, reading
and bending for fallen water bottles. Spontaneous
curious communities are not for everyone. Even
relaxed, spare time finds introspective loneliness winning.
Odd to watch a self-made culture crumble.
No one speaks the awful truths that dominate
our lives, while first class trophy brides and
bachelorettes gulp big booze, ignore the masses and sneer.
Mayonnaise spooges through the bottom of paper bags.
16-month-old Josh grabs his mother’s breast.
Our flight, five hours late, pushes away from RDU. Egg oil
utters quietly: “revolutions solve nothing, make peace at home.”
Copyright, Doug Stuber, 2005. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.