Your meal table’s in
the arm of your seat
your seat is on the plane
but you’re nowhere near the airport
not stuck at Hangar Lane
you’re crouched behind the sofa
crying again.
Your meal-ticket came through early
they say you fell on your feet
and sprinted the fasttrack to sitting pretty
like your wife in your soft plush place in The City
or your secluded country mansion.
Your chiselled chin and your shapely seat
have much room for expansion.
Your attitude’s spot on for us
and you’ve a sharp, well-focussed mind
so why are you crying
when everything’s fine?
They booked you on the 7.30
and I dont think you’ll make it.
I suspect I’ll have to fire you.
How do you think you’ll break it
to your plush and pouting wife
that you lost your marbles
all the reason in your life
in the time it took to miss a plane
one corporate Tuesday morning
of multi-conglomerate pain?
What is this deeply hidden
fear of flying
that leaves men like you
behind the sofa
crying?
Wings dont seem to fit
on a back that wide and strong.
I think I’ll hire your sexy wife…
flying turns her on….