Betty Grable was Probably Here


We stand in line
ready to board our flight:
red-eye out of Denver
heads bowed over smart phones
shuffling silently
like a volunteer chain gang.

The flight representative
scans our boarding passes.
Electronic beeps pierce the drone
of a floor waxer
reminding me of an EKG machine
monitoring a comatose patient.

This is an old plane.
It’s easy to tell.
The pilot checks an instrument panel
I last saw on a documentary
about B-29 Superfortresses.
There is a large indentation
on the ceiling. 
Something big was removed from there
a long time ago.
It was probably the bomb rack.

Taking my seat 
I look out of the window
watch a group of mechanics
standing on the wing.
One guy shakes his head.
The other imitates a plane
taking a nose dive.
They all laugh.
A woman three rows in front of me sobs.

They climb off 
just before the engines start.
Sparks fly from the far turbine.





Imagining Waterfalls


It's hard to stand and concentrate
in an airplane bathroom
when the turbulence is heavy,
even though water from the last passenger
sloshes in the sink
and the aluminum bowl
looks like it can take
far more than I can give.

I turn my head
look at myself in the mirror
the skin bubbles under my eyes
the rapier slashes on my forehead.
This is what four hours sleep
two hours in line for baggage check
can do to a man no longer young.
I close my eyes and wonder
if the places I will hike have waterfalls
high
roaring
rushing waterfalls.

The plane hits an air pocket.
My left frontal lobe bounces off the wall
and for a moment
I am in the Mile High Club
fending off a ravenous blonde.





Flying the Malevolent Skies


Flight attendant 
evil winged waitress
rams her beverage cart
into my knee
chuckles an apology
tosses a bag of almonds on my groin
and I recall the sensitivity of gonads.

The contortionist seated to my right
gives me a scowl
itches her cerebellum 
with the back of her left heel
tells me leg room is for sissies.

But even though my arrival time
has gone from 6:00PM Tuesday
to 3:00AM Wednesday,
even though a bearded TSA officer
patted me down a little too long,
stuffed her phone number into my back pocket,
I am not sad or depressed
for I will be in Wyoming soon
ready to hike the Absarokas.

The pilot announces 
we need to land at Denver.
A price hike for carry-on baggage
has caused a riot 
at the Jackson Hole airport.
In addition, our luggage has been diverted
to Yakutsk, Siberia.





A Small Mechanical Failure


We have sat idle on this plane
for the last half hour
dim lights
air conditioning off
listening to metal banging on metal
as a maintenance crew
tries to open the cabin door.

Through sporadic curses 
and congested coughs, 
a flight attendant assures us
they will open the doors shortly
so we can disembark.

In the row behind me,
two elderly women
talk about their sex lives
how easy it is to get it
at their retirement community,
easier than when 
the boys came home from Korea.

An overweight man
in a crumpled business suit
snores next to me.
His head flops onto my shoulder
as he puts his hand on my thigh
calls me Gladys
tells me I look beautiful.

I push his hand away
inform him that Gladys left him
for a thinner man.
He continues to snore while I lament
this was the first person
to touch me intimately
in well over a year.