Fresh Air

Little legs furiously kicking the lower part of my seat for hours on end,
With brief moments of respite
Only to begin again even more feverishly
Working like ants carrying bread crumb morsels up their hill
Despite my frustrated glances over my shoulder to her helpless father

The gaseous odours wafting through the cabin from the rooms of rest
Bringing fears of overflow
Of falling asleep and awakening to a Gathering storm of waste matter
Suffocatingly pressing on my chest
Seeking a portal of reentry through my mouth

The lady sitting next to me nervously picking at the outer crust of her sandwich
And then wadding it up in the brown bag it came in
With the ferociousness of institutionalized madness let loose for the day

Drifting slowly off to sleep as the furious little legs take a breather
Only to be awakened from my hypnagogic jerks like glass shattering in the middle of a quickened night
When the tray table behind me slammed between my shoulder blades at the behest of the little rug scrumler’s knees

So good to be back in the air again
Knowing we’ll soon once again be awash in the dry airs of Denver
Warming our hearts together by a fire
Sipping whiskey and dark brown stouts
In the best of company
In that phantasmagoric old Victorian in Capitol Hill!

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, Thanksgiving Day, 2016 in the air on the way to a long weekend in Denver.


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