Table of Contents
It Was Not Hard To Look Away
It was not hard to look away,
There being so much more to observe, and admire, and speculate about,
As the woman in seat 32E turned her head,
And tilted it towards the window, to get her bearings.
There was, for example, the catch and release of Auburn,
Glowing along the ends of her hair,
There was the absorption and re-radiation of whiteness,
In the down along the profile of her nose,
And above her lips, and along her cheek.
Which is why, with so much at stake,
It was no great sacrifice to be polite and avert his eyes,
When she turned her head another five degrees, or eight perhaps,
And leaned forward, causing the fabric in her jacket, and then her blouse, to relax,
And both fell away from her skin, revealing a great unintended seduction.
He searched for an innocent proxy,
And looking down he found a darkened indentation in her charcoal stocking,
Where a toned quadriceps attached to an athletic knee,
And there he rested.
For what, he worried, if she turned back her head,
Suddenly, and discovered him in an adolescent moment,
And drew false conclusions about his intentions and character?
He grieved in advance her loss, and the many things they would never do,
Their fifth kiss, and its repercussions,
Their children, their repose together for eternity.
When the plane finished its taxi, it pivoted on the runway,
And tubes of sunlight poured into the fuselage,
Then she untwisted, and settled in her seat,
And he knew the temptation had been withdrawn,
He raised his head, and finding her in three-quarter profile,
Might have met her eyes, but she did not accept the offer, or notice it,
For she was not looking, at six AM, to encourage conversation or approach.
He said, “You almost missed the flight,” in mock scolding,
And she turned and regarded him, and forced to choose
Whether to receive his advance or to deflect it, politely,
After a moment made a decision, and said,
“Yes, I hate getting up early.”
Turbulence
Turbulence scares me.
“The plane will not fall,” she said,
“Even though it may bounce or bump.”
She refers to this as “chop,”
An inside joke, professional vernacular.
“Chop is like a boat over waves,
Some people like it.”
But my knuckles get white and my hands perspire.
“It works like this,” she said.
“Air flows over and under the wings,
Beneath it it's slow, but the pressure is high,
On top it’s fast, but the pressure is low.
“The difference in pressure lifts the plane,
Like a rope that never breaks.
On every flight, even if you don’t trust it,
It still will never break.
“Flying always involves pressure.”
When I look out the window the wings bend.
“Wings have to flex, silly man,
In order to absorb the air that swirls around them.
A pair of rigid wings would break for sure.”
I feel as though the plane will fly apart.
“Planes do not fly apart on their own, without warning.
You have to break them, on purpose."
I want a smooth ride all the time.
“Chop is a part of flying, see?
No chop, no motion."
And then, with emphasis she added, “Look,
“Even though it’s sometimes rough,
And you do bounce and bump,
Be grateful for the pressure,
The positive and negative,
Which keeps you airborne and alive.
“Lift is a powerful thing, like the rope that never breaks.
And that is why you will not crash, ever, from turbulence.
And then I knew she knew much more about flying
Than I would ever imagine.
