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United we stumble, an angry man in a pink shirt in Group 3 who the gate agent restrains when he attacks women, two women, one old with a worn movie star sadness and palsy the other young, doughy looking, whose face I can’t remember because it doesn’t look like a face yet rather its dough and playdough and cookie batter and possibly—possibly—will become a woman when baked at high temperatures. Economy, non-stop flight 391 to San Francisco with gas stops in Minneapolis and, also, Denver for crying out loud. There was a thin crisp dusting of snow on the runway in Minneapolis, and the air was dry. Whatever the diner in terminal C of Newark says, they do not have the best home fries in the world. In Denver I thought of my sister, how we don’t know each other but are almost the same, are almost Tony with boobs, are almost making money. Almost the same. Except this plane is broken, why will you fly us in it? Except, there are divers in the fuel tank. Scuba the exotic fumes spilled in the Gulf. Except, we are already seven hours late. Except, please, please god, just make sense. Except, there are no exceptions no empty seats on other flights no other way no other way no way home for Christmas. When did I become the one waiting for the rest of the house to wake up? Old, old, old, and needing gas stops.
#Unreal #Christmas #Travel #Airlines #Economy #HomeforChristmas #Poetry #Flying
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