On the Joys of Airline Travel

So the plane goes whoosh
and I feel my foots
fall asleep with a throb and a wob
   --and a bang?
Was is something in the engines? In the overhead compartments??
(While each toe is swelling up
   beyond the size of a plantain)

But I can't shift my jacket
(which I'm using as a pillow)
to support my neck any better
   than a crick,
and I can't put my hands
in a non-sweaty place
unless they're knotted in a clasp at the base
   of my dick.

There's a fart
 that's expanding
  in my lower intestine --
   if it wishes to escape
    with a flobber and a smell,
the rubber of my seat
 and my butt cheek meat
will reflatulate the gas until this row becomes a hell.

The rushing of the air
   from the knob up there
sucks the moisture from our mouths
but recirculates the germs:
so in a day or two,
   when I come down with a flu
or a virus or a plague or a pestilence of worms,

I'll know to blame the snorer.
Or the infant, always howling --
Hey! That little shit behind me kicked my seat with real aggression!
I'd take a break to pee,
but at the lavatory,
there's a queue of grumpy grannies
from row six to twenty-seven!

These cheapskates in the aisles tried to charge me for a coffee,
(though their cart is overstocked just in case
   of a drop
through the thirty thousand feet
and unrescuable sleet --
if the passengers go cannibal
   the attendants can sip pop) --

I'm considering a dash
 to the exit row as fast
as I can unhook the belt
 and leave my friends surprised --
I'll heave that lever,
 and I'll tumble gleeful seaward!
I'd rather die than fly once more!

 ...but it's just
   too far
    to drive.

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