poem of the day 12.21.09

all of us assholes on the plane

i don’t like the blonde sitting
across from me on the plane.

something about her keeps rubbing
me the wrong way.

she keeps lowering her eyes at me
glaring at me
every time i speak to my wife.

the plane has been delayed an hour.
we’ve been stuck on the runway
another half-hour.

the blonde doesn’t like it
that she’s stuck on the runway
doesn’t like it that she’s sitting
across from me
because i’m being drunk and loud
and talking to my wife
and watching a football game on
the little television.

then my phone rings and i pick it up.

“are you still on the plane?” my mother asks.

“yes.”

“how is it?”

“it wouldn’t be so bad,” i say,
“if there weren’t so many assholes on the plane.”

i get off the phone and look over at the blonde.
she’s not looking at me this time, but at her man.

she’s whispering something to him
and he’s staring at me.

but, honestly,
what can he do about me?
what can any of us do about anything
on a night like this?