Rough Air
A beer at 30,000 feetis the bomb. I meanbalm, as one shouldn’t jokeabout explosives this high.Especially in 32c,where I’ll never reachthe cannabis gummystashed in my overhead coat.The fuselage rattlesand jolts. The airline saysit has for my leisurethe most movies in the sky,but they do me nowhen I pine for wheremy daughters play.They’re the best wayto get lift or downrightdrunk. I prefer their facesto mine—all this wantand ego, my desire to steerthrough rough airthis plane that shanksthe clouds. Will the yawof an orbiting satellitepull us through?I’m asking for a friend.I grip armrests with otherbundles of fear, tryingto dissolve myself amonglushes and teachersand Marvel dorks,holistic acupuncturists,iron women, nail biters,brats. It can be calmingin an
