Adverse Weather causing Flight Delays

Delayed flight.

.

The sun bursts through a cloud,

Clearing a view to the ground below,

And I peer down to the filthy

Old Dupont Factory and scatter-scan

For the houses of people I can land upon

And burst amongst,

If the cabin depressurises.

.

My bladder thrumming to the

Rattly ould engines of the Christ-

Fuckered, grasshopper of a plane,

I listen to ominous, sweeping music

While my mad wife sketches

And we suck on boiled sweets beneath our masks,

That disguise our farts with clove-heat.

.

She objects to my use of that word

But is quietened by the reminder

Hungover and legally vague

That she took my surname

And with it, by implication,

All irritating encumbrances of personality.

As the turbulence calms a bit.

.

The two seats behind us are empty,

And behind those, the toilets

Then sky, so I deduce that we

Are sitting in front of ghosts.

Or dreaded see-through folk.

I blow e-cigarette vapour behind me

To try and see them, to summon shapes.

.

The air-steward is calm and that

Type of friendly that comes from a

Life of dealing with the general public

And can often be mistaken for angry.

She reminds me that I shouldn’t do that

To which my response of ‘sorry’

Sounds sarcastic and a bit pathetic.

.

My mad wife has forgotten the face

In the sketch she’s doing, the face

Of all things, what a blunder.

She assures me she is a aware and says ‘shit up’.

Her tone implies that the oversight was intentional

But I remain unconvinced

As we air-wiggle over the Sperrins.

.

When the chime tells me, to my substantial relief

That I can subtly remove my belt

And modern-dance like a wary goat

Along the skinny-bitch, shifting, aisle

To the toilets behind the ghosts, I promise myself

(Knowing that it is a wicked lie)

That I will try to aim well this time.

.

Reseated, my inner face tubes squeak and squark,

As the air pressure goes bananas

And my sinuses beatbox like a white dude.

Yawning, I hear a treacle-sucking ‘pop’.

The delta of the wing to my right

Is tinged with the blood-orange glow

Of a fond farewell, and I stare into the clouds.