A Poem by John Grey
My wife sips a martini,
doesn’t even notice the turbulence.
Unlike her gin and vermouth,
clouds and metal don’t mix.
I grip the armrests of my scat,
struggle to hold the plane together.
Any calmer and she’d be mistaken for
a Zen master meditating.
Scat-belt signs flash ominously.
My nerves feel like they’re shot lull of arrows.
The attendants come equipped
with been-there, done-that faces.
I see a flash of lightning.
It blazes across my wife’s forehead
but leaves no impression.
A woman screams.
Someone’s on my side at least.
But then, embarrassed
by her sudden outburst,
“Quisling,” I mutter under my breath.
My wife doesn’t even look up.
Then the captain’s plays God,
tells us not to worry,
we’ll have you all down in no time.
Some time would be my preference.