Don’t you miss the fun of flying,
when you knew you could expect great .service?
Perky stews would keep you smiling.
Now, boarding a plane just makes me nervous
Out of bed in the dark of night
to park in an asphalt desert.
Ride the bus to the scheduled flight.
The threat level's still yellow alert!
Get there three hours early
and stumble through security.
Show two picture ID’s to the porter.
I swear I packed my bags and that they’re in order.
Wait in line, peel off shoes and jacket,
remove my belt, empty my pocket.
Scanners beep if metal is detected.
Do you really think they’ll see me naked?
Can their sensors sniff like DEA’s mongrels
searching for some coke and C-4’s plastique smells?
Do they even snort for matches too?
I guess not, it seems some get them through.
They’ve finished now; sent us to the gate;
it’s easier to be shipped as freight.
Flying is scary so they had to search me;
it's not such a high price to pay for “liberty!”
Grab your wallet and check the amount
of Franklins that the Feds can now count
with scanners that read the metallic thread
that hides embedded next to old Ben’s head!
Don’t you miss the fun of flying
when you walked directly to the gate or plane?
No inspections, no one tiring
of dragging carry-ons again and again.
I see a lot of frost on the wing tips.
Who knows if we will ever leave on this trip?
We’re told to line up at the gate and display IDs.
I get frisked anew and have to show the Feds my keys.
Don’t you miss the fun of flying
when they just eyed your boarding pass?
They never bothered patting the padding
on your shoulders, your hips or on your ass.
The wings still have ice. It’s above the door.
I’m worried that it will never thaw.
While the plane is sprayed I need to pee
and I want a drink, I’m so thirsty.
Seat belts are on; I can’t leave my seat….
It’s tough to admit my own defeat.
To bitch and moan may well be contagious….
I’d start a riot and make things more grievous.
The doors are closed; an engine started;
attendants check that we tighten our belts;
a turbine coughs…perhaps it farted;
the plane is pushed off; my anxiety melts.
An hour later we’re in the air.
I lift myself from my narrow chair
and run, not walk to the closest toilet
where the queue’s so long, how can I hold it?
As soon as I get back into my chair
A “meal” appears with panache and an air;
a cup of weak coffee, tea or a Coke,
a bag of nuts; we’re just not the First Class folk.
Don’t you miss the fun of flying
in the old days on smaller jets?
What a pleasure to be dining
on steak, champagne and crepes Suzettes!
Alighting in the dark of night,
“We hope you had a pleasant flight.”
bellows from the speakers overhead.
Just get me to a nice warm bed!
Hoofing what seems a mile, I’m sore.
I’m stopped at a line drawn on the floor.
Immigration wants my passport and more
before they’ll let me through the baggage door.
I rush outside and fight for a taxi;
it speeds me to my plush hotel.
I sleep, wake up, meet clients, I’m so foxy!
At least some things on this trip went well.
Back at the airport later that evening,
I am apprehensively catty and I cower.
I see men on the same line, they're edgy and waiting,
who look like the bastards who blew up the towers.
Am I racist! How can these people be culprits?
They shouldn’t be blamed for their “brothers” sins.
But many, I fear, swing from strings like mere puppets
operated by maniacal jinns.
Is it so wrong to be paranoiac
about bearded men from sere bailiwicks?
Didn’t we see on TV how they cheered in Damascus
when the World Trade Center collapsed and they cursed the U.S.?
before shrill terror born from hate?
No one’s thoughts were on a bombing,
while walking to the ramp or gate.
High in the Sierras.
Two years later:
