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When in the air, too cramped to touch my toes,
bored with the offering of videos
I may decide, to while away the time,
to write a poem – free verse or in rhyme
whatever the Muse sends me, I’ll compose.

But all around me chatter ebbs and flows,
and someone’s wine spills, to compound my woes,
over my lap as the plane banks to climb
when in the air.

They who ride on the wind must brave its blows –
I’ve tried my very best, and heaven knows
with peace and quiet my poem could be sublime
but those I write on planes aren’t worth a dime:
no use – I might as well be writing prose
when in the air.