Aloft

Aptly named, an Airbus bears me, without
Comfort, to the west, to Denver for
A couple days. Stuffed between
A pimply kid, a tattooed matron, serenaded
By a nearby wailing baby, I attempt to go
Sleep. I'll fail. I can't extend my legs.
I'm grateful that this flight is short,
And that I brought some food to eat,
The stuff they have for sale on board
Being neither good nor cheap. A trip
By air once was pleasure. Passengers
Got drinks and treats. Now they simply
Sit and suffer transport by a bus.





Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 54 times
Written on 2024-05-15 at 18:56

dott Save as a bookmark (requires login)
dott Write a comment (requires login)
dott Send as email (requires login)
dott Print text


alarian The PoetBay support member heart!
and by the way, the number of flights in private jet has never be so high! (no pun intended)
2024-05-15