Homecoming
Thank god she offered the exit row aisle. “You don’t want

the center seat,” she said. “It’s miserable,” neither of us said. In the case

of emergency I have consented to assist. In the case of oxygen,

I’m to help myself before others. A flood of youth in matching

missionary shirts board behind me, and I search for clues

of what they’ve done. Did the locals consent? Does anyone ask

before they save? Don’t make an ass of you and me. Sometimes

you just want to know how long after sinking it takes for your lifeless body

to float. I decline a rum floater to stay sharp but who knows

if I’ll need it later. Happy death day, only the can living say. To the extent

of my knowledge. The man in a Swiss dot shirt turns to smile. At what?

Doesn’t he know I’m joyless? It’s expensive to give in, even more so

not to. If someone tries to run to the front to de-board first, I’m really

gonna lose it. Through the cabin doors misled missiles try to find

customs. What kind of missile stops in the middle of a walkway,

for no apparent reason? I must do this all the time. The Swiss dot man

yells at a woman in the immigration line. Another man tells him to cool

it. It seems like a family thing, as they turn to ignore him. “We don’t

know him,” they tell the officer. “Daddy’s not nice when he’s mad,”

the man says to his daughter. What daughter? The officer removes him

and he gets to baggage claim before all of us. I learn a lesson about

harassment. “Welcome aboard the plane train,” the plane train says. You

never know on which side the doors will open.