We boomers have seen airplane travel evolve from the luxury car to the cattle car. So has Robert McGinness of Columbia, South Carolina. After a trip to Amsterdam, he wrote this poem to which we think you will relate! He appropriately calls it “Terminal Travel.”
Three thousand four hundred ten miles away,
five thousand four hundred eighty eight K.
Will I arrive with my brain cells intact?
Not with this discordant, phonic hijack.
Gateway announcements and holiday tunes,
weathermen talking of Asian monsoons,
talking heads with their political rant,
beeping of transports with people that can’t
walk through the terminal all on their own,
pulling their squeaky carts, talking on phone,
giving instructions to people who stay,
feed the cat, walk the dog, while we’re away.
Clinking of bottles in nearby sports bars,
watching some games between their team and ours,
walking with spike heels on echoing floors,
whooshing and swooshing of terminal doors.
Jet taking off on a nearby runway,
where is your passport, how long will you stay?
Have a nice trip and this way to your seat,
soon, we’ll be at thirty eight thousand feet,
but first they announce how to buckle my seat,
and how soon we’ll get something scrumptious to eat,
and turn off, please, all your electronic gear,
and turn on that seat back TV so you hear
all the announcements and musical treats,
from stations worldwide as my brain overheats.
Wheels folding up as we leave the tarmac:
the last thing I hear as my senses go black.