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Plain Thoughts.BY VICKI WEISSMAN
That means foul food, slack staff, no room, no sleep. Bad drink, lav. queues, loud mouths. It's migraine time. Why do I do this? Every trip is hell. You'd think at my age I'd've learned to stay Home, peaceful in my own backyard. But here I am again. Thank God my husband's here To share this torture, or with every shot Of vodka I'd be less inclined to stay Docile, belted-up. Rather than seek sleep I'd look for trouble, cause a little hell. "Another pillow please" ... at coffee time A spill ... "My headset's dead." I'd pass the time. Sure it's my own fault that I'm stuck up here And patient darling will remind me: "Hell Is down that way. We have not yet been shot, Are nearer stars than usual when we sleep. Press pause is our best option. Angel, let's stay Calm." Always he's my proper prop and stay. Who can suppose the open-ended time Of marriage? Deep nights of private sleep After shared bliss. Vows, rows, Still tied. After long years our love's not shot, Still we're companions in this tube of hell. It doesn't always work. It's utter hell When it is wrong—but I guess we shall stay Together now and give it our best shot Till the pilot's voice says: "Folks, the local time Is blah blah blah. And we shall still be here But nearly there and we can think of sleep. Weary and battered we shall gather sleep Round us like blankets, knowing that our hell Is over. What now starts when there is here Is a new question. Arrived, how shall we stay Earthed? Shall we learn, anchor this time, Or, like racehorses at the starting shot, Bound from the gate again? Sleep does not stay Yearnings. Habit is hell. It's a one-time Gig here. We'll keep on till our roll is shot.
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