PM1303161
John Fitzgerald Kennedy International Airport, New York
City, the bar looked out on to the various
runways, while planes from the world over
taxied by, filled with wild-eyed vacationers,
some heading home, possibly for a funeral or
maybe even a birth,
long shot case even a circumcision, but then
again, why would they be leaving New York.
I ordered my third whiskey sour and decided
maybe I should slow down, I had four or
five hours to kill, most could be done in front
of this window but if I fell asleep I would get
in trouble.
Royal Air Maroc, LOT and Aerflot, one behind the
other, I guessed Casablanca, Warsaw and Moscow
and I was probably right. I could
make out the faces inside the tiny windows
and no matter the amount of happiness it
was always overpowered by the fear.
The Fear.
The fear of crashing into the ocean,
the fear of being late,
the fear of a mid-air collision and your
body disintegrating beyond recognition.
The fear of a customs dog picking up on the
scent of marijuana embedded in your
jean jacket no matter how many times
you had it washed,
how long would you last in a South American
jail,
and would they even notify anyone to come
and get you out?
I doubt it.
It's easy, just don't get on the plane.
Not so easy, I already checked my luggage,
it will go anyway,
and how do I get back to Toronto,
I don't have a return ticket.
Avianca flight # whatever, I'n not going to
Bogota, finally I see the Aerolineas
Argentinas jumbo jet move down the tarmac
and into a dock.
At least I know the plane is there and I
forget everything else, instead deciding to have
another whiskey sour, I wish I was back
at school and the holidays were over.
By the time I'm ready to board, I'm drunk,
by the time take-off rolls around, I am asleep,
somewhere over the Amazon I awake to
find they have kept my meal warm and the flight
is running smooth as silk.
Ezeiza in the morning, just in time for breakfast.
MCC
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