Fine Dining On Air France
We are monopolized
by the Saran-wrapped food,
the plastic cutlery;
absorbed by the clutter
of the crowded food tray.
Numbed by hours of jiggling,
the carting of torpid bodies
through interminable distance,
we’re wedged now into boredom.
Anesthetized – we fear nothing.
If the aircraft stalls,
few will scream.
We’ll keep decanting
small bottles of vin de table.
We must butter those buns.
As the aircraft plummets
earthward,
we’ll continue to struggle
with condiment sachets,
coffee creamers,
with small molded cruets.
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