John Grey

She sips her soda gently
even as the plane bumps and rattles.
Her calm is uppermost,
despite these dreaded clouds,
gray and menacing.

She doesn’t even have to concentrate
like I’m sure the pilot must be doing.
Her hand’s so steady, it adjusts
to all this rollicking unknowingly.
My drink threatens to spill at any moment.
Hers never will.

Eventually, we pass the turbulence.
The vessel settles down.
The pilot apologizes for the air.
She’s done with her soda.
I have a stain on my shirt,
drops down my cheek,
and still a little liquid in the cup.

She sits back, returns to the book
she’s been reading.
I’d do the same but
the plot is dripping from the ceiling,
the characters are underneath
the seat in front of me.