thoughts from 30,000 feet

So why don’t I get seated by the hot chick,
or the interesting one,
her, there, with the pink diamond-eye’d skull bag tags?
Or one who loves the silent, pink inside of their eyelids
as much as I do.
Not the guys with shoulders like mine.
Or the one with the dog and need to share.
It ‘s undoubtedly universal, like a bad freshman year roommate.
First world problems.
I’m not complaining.
Really.
Much.
It’s easy to slip negative
When you smile because it’s American.
And gestate grumpy thoughts when the elbows begin to battle
sheepishly.
The fake smile behind the question –
crotch or butt in your face as I squeeze
acrobatically
by?
Hey, a little help,
help pass the cup of tepid earl grey-ish tea?
Wait. Don’t.
I got it. And smile while
I shield my keyboard from the clumsiness I assigned to your backstory.
The backstory which, designed to enliven anemic babble,
failed.
Imagination trapped
in a dry seat at thirty thousand feet.
Lacking oxygen
I smile
nod and explore the frozen landscape.
Wonder what you really think of me.
Are you a jerk too?
Pretend that’s my farm to liven it up.
Think about investing in the search for a common denominator.
We’ve begun our descent
so I don’t.
Think about a friend I know. Smile.
Wondering if she thinks about me too in random moments like this.
How we might judge you. Wink and nod.
Giggle and watch humanity drip by.
I wonder if I would hold your hand as the plane went down.

I stop smiling.
Can’t wait to chose my own cabbie.
Based on a smile and an accent. Perhaps a good hat.
Chose and start this trip over.
I smile.

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