While on an airplane,
remember to breathe.
Acknowledge those around you,
in the seat next over or behind,
with a nod and a glib, close-mouthed smile;
do not stare.
Observe fellow passengers.
Their appearances change drastically as
the plane steers toward destinations,
unloading the glitz and glamorous to Vegas
while crowding in families, plain like vanilla,
from Milwaukee.
You’ve jammed half your life into a carry-on,
nebulous in color and size, like millions before you.
Stuff it awkwardly out of reach
so your neck aches like a tourist’s, or
push it underneath a neighbor’s seat
so it becomes footrest, foot warmer, or
toe rammer through the course of the flight.
Stretch and twist and remember to breathe.
Peak down to the miniature landscape below,
through the window of six-inch glass.
It is like a green and brown jigsaw,
painted by global warming,
with contoured 3-D highlights.
Imagine a harness, a nylon body suit and goggles,
a parachute and a hatch door open to the clouds.
Would you assert that you’ve overcome
your fears then?
Remember to breathe.
Sip the tiny cups of water, coffee, tea or spirits
they kindly offer and mix in a thimbleful of
peanuts or animal crackers or pretzels.
Claim, with certainty, that yes, it is enough
to tide you over.
Remember to breathe.
Fine tune your ears to the sound of
the children around your seat.
A trickle of Asian language drips
behind you like a word faucet.
Watch the wide-eyed bobble head of
a newborn, their impatient squirm
and small crying, chirping voices
with the change in pressure.
Watch the parents whisper to each other,
“Remember to breathe.”
Catch their eyes and smile,
with substance and effort.
Do not grimace or react when the young
girl in the middle seat of your trio
constantly, but innocently, elbows you.
She unearths all manner of crunchy snacks and
reading material from a sack at her feet.
She means no harm.
She is just passing time and whiling away
the hours on a sketchpad.
She draws foxes and dinosaurs and reads
epic historical coffee table books.
She has long dark hair and loves
her purple, u-shaped neck cushion.
She is unapologetic.
She reminds you of babysitting your sister;
remember to breathe.
Watch the minutes gather in numbers and
float by mutely.
Reference hand-held devices and
double-check the printed itinerary.
Your body is still on West Coast time.
A four-hour flight, mostly seated,
feels like eight.
Remember to breathe.
How can you dare complain about this
modern-day inconvenience when you
return from a land where passage of
the Oregon Trail took months to complete?
Fly into a sunset calling you home.
