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My Trouble With Flying

When I wake up the morning of vacation,
I already feel of the cold, nervous plane.
I already breathe the stale, cruising altitude air.
I don’t like to fly.
I am forced to imagine my tropical destination,
Warm and exciting,
But then I snap back to reality in a dark, crowded plane
And a jaded flight attendant asks me if I want
Foul air-food.
I resist the temptation to whip out my iPod,
To drown out the voices of the bickering old couple behind me,
Because I know
Whatever song I end up playing
Will remind me of this
Same, awful feeling on the plane.




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