Transportation Trepidation - Part 2

And so, the flight was, indeed, very bumpy last night. I have no idea how pilots maintain composure during constant pockets of air, tossing our metal tube every which way. But, I'm glad they do.

The flight from Nashville to Chicago is a quick hour. In my experience, when the pilot lets the passengers know that the crew will not be offering the beverage service, and that they will remain in their seats throughout the entire duration, it's not a good sign. I hear that and I quickly brace myself for the ride. Those were the exact words out of the captain's mouth last night. Although he did promise some possible smooth air, which we got for all of about three minutes.

But we made it. Thankfully.

As promised, to my faithful seven readers, what follows is a poem I wrote in the early 90's. My dad, my brother, Ira, and I had gone to Vegas. My brother, Darrell and his wife, Cindy, were living in Henderson, NV, and my grandparents and aunt, who all lived in Tucson, drove six hours. It was a family reunion, of sorts.

On our way back to Chicago, the generator went out on the plane. I could tell something was wrong when the engines kept running high and low in a pattern that nearly made me sick. The pilot came on the overhead and informed us of the situation. He gave us the news, telling us we were in no danger, but I was convinced we would meet our demise. In an effort to ease my mind, I smoked several cigarettes, and wrote a poem.

I think it still holds up, minus the smoking part.



Transportation Trepidation

I know someday I’ll die
in a plane crash. People
will read about it in the newspapers and say
oh, my, what a shame. He was always afraid
of dying in a plane.

They tell me it’s nothing to worry about;
flying is safer than driving.
I draw upon my cigarette,
watching the smoke linger
toward the non-smoking section.
An elderly woman with too much red lipstick
and too little grey hair
coughs my way.
I take another drag.

My father sleeps as we taxi down the runway.
Earlier complaining about overcrowded airports
and limbs falling asleep.
If I sleep we will die.

The engines scream,
reminding me of my mother
hearing about my cousin’s death.
She died in a car.
Going down my thoughts will be of sex
or God, wanting to satisfy both.

My brother is no help.
He sits, contemplating,
Jack Daniels and Coke,
unaware of razor blade burns
on his neck and cheeks.

I remember the first time I saw these clouds;
asking my father why we were in Alaska.
I see no angels in these clouds.
Angels live in heaven. Flying, I’m in hell.