The glowing white vestibule
of this France-bound plane
is well-airconditioned and
sterile like a casino or operating room.
The curved overhead compartments
and sliding window covers are
clean and futuristic as though built
for some late 1970's action movie.
I am paralyzed in the 41st row
behind a heavy set French teenager
who hasn't considered that as his
chair moves swiftly back, the
two bulbs in his spine are my
bruised and immoveable knees.
I will surely continue the uncomfortable
domino fall by relaxing my seat into
the lap and luxury of the passengers behind me.
Surely they will take comfort in the fact
taht this unpleasant seating is only
temporary as some thick-accented proletariat
is about to take over the plane,
thwarted only by some unlikely ex-cop,
who doesn't play by the rules.
I can assume the fire tongued stewardess
who just handed me a small cup of orange juice
will be instrumental in our salvation.
And we will all feel a certain sense of gratitude
as her modeling career takes off.