“We’re very busy, ma’am.” My upgrade’s shot.
That means foul food, slack staff, no room, no sleep.
Bad drink, lav. queues, loud mouths. It’s migraine time.
Why do I do this? Every trip is hell.
You’d think at my age I’d’ve learned to stay
Home, peaceful in my own backyard. But here

I am again. Thank God my husband’s here
To share this torture, or with every shot
Of vodka I’d be less inclined to stay
Docile, belted-up. Rather than seek sleep
I’d look for trouble, cause a little hell.
“Another pillow please” … at coffee time

A spill … “My headset’s dead.” I’d pass the time.
Sure it’s my own fault that I’m stuck up here
And patient darling will remind me: “Hell
Is down that way. We have not yet been shot,
Are nearer stars than usual when we sleep.
Press pause is our best option. Angel, let’s stay

Calm.” Always he’s my proper prop and stay.
Who can suppose the open-ended time
Of marriage? Deep nights of private sleep
After shared bliss. Vows, rows, laughs—and we’re here,
Still tied. After long years our love’s not shot,
Still we’re companions in this tube of hell.

It doesn’t always work. It’s utter hell
When it is wrong—but I guess we shall stay
Together now and give it our best shot
Till the pilot’s voice says: "Folks, the local time
Is blah blah blah. And we shall still be here
But nearly there and we can think of sleep.

Weary and battered we shall gather sleep
Round us like blankets, knowing that our hell
Is over. What now starts when there is here
Is a new question. Arrived, how shall we stay
Earthed? Shall we learn, anchor this time,
Or, like racehorses at the starting shot,

Bound from the gate again? Sleep does not stay
Yearnings. Habit is hell. It’s a one-time
Gig here. We’ll keep on till our roll is shot.