Round two inside a torture tube. I'm flying to Seattle for a week.
En route, I doubly pay, by money, through profound discomfort.
I can't straighten out my knees. They'll hand us pretzels for
A snack, tasteless things to choke upon. The people on this plane,
Conditioned, as so many seem to be, to care for nothing more than
What they squint at on their little screens, refuse to raise their window
Shades. The tube, then, stays exactly that. I'll try to sleep to kill
The time. If I cannot, I'll grow quite bored, and reach the place
I'd hoped to go profoundly out of sorts.