John Grey
She loves the pampering.
“Would you like a magazine?
A beverage?”
Many a time, she’s prayed to God
but He doesn’t respond like a stewardess.
She despises violent movies.
No problem, there’s a family channel
on offer through the airplane’s video system.
The stewardess sets it up for her,
shows her how to work the volume on the remote.
If her children could only see her now.
More than that, if only her children
were as caring and considerate as the stewardess.
And her husband – but she’s flying
thirty thousand plus six feet above him.
So forget that asshole.
“Is it too cold for you?
How about a blanket?
We have a mask for your eyes,
ear plugs,
an extra cushion if you wish.”
When she was a child
and she screamed for things,
they didn’t arrive
with such speed and grace.
If they arrived at all, that is.
Parents, offspring,
and that no-good husband of hers.
Why aren’t they around now
to witness how it really should be done.
Sure, they won’t allow her to smoke
in the cabin
but that’s a small complaint.
With all comforts laid on like this,
she doesn’t even have to light up.
The one who really needs to be here
to see all this
is the woman who slaves, who scrimps,
who works her fingers to the bone,
for the ungrateful.
That woman will be waiting at the airport.
She’ll welcome herself home.
Clamor 