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At the Front of the Jet
The
grapefruit's fresh, the coffee's coarsely
ground,
The
lunch comes with a cold aperitif;
The
cushioned takeoff scarcely makes a sound
More
vexing than the "iff" that ends "Braniff."
Up
front the stewardesses really care.
They
have kind eyes, like guides in Disneyland.
(Doctors,
great statesmen, writers go by air:
The
people at United lend a hand.)
And
at the terminal a car is waiting,
Blue
windshield showing a fresh trace of suds;
They've
left the blower on, refrigerating;
The
tape deck breathes "Moon River"; the
door thuds.
Give
me the sole, the prime, the demitasse.
Yes;
if God travels, then He goes first class.
Frederick
Turner
From
April Wind, © 1991. Reprinted by permission
of University Press of Virginia.
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