Bring three of those plastic bottles
wait do they come in glass?
No? Fine, bring four, that shall even the score
One. 15,000 feet.
I lean forward, New York building tips
become visible beneath the left wing.
Long Island shore appears slightly
I see a whale, no its oil.
Ice hits my front teeth and a cringe lightly
jaw line tightens up and makes me appear more like Dorian Gray.
The clear plastic cup empties slowly
as the chiseled, perfectly shaped cubes digress.
Two. 27,400 feet.
Portentous clouds are approaching
only to be shattered by the planes nose and deliver us to transparency.
The mass shakes subtly not to spill my vice.
Head feels lighter, as if helium is drifting up from the floors
My posture wains as my slacks rise up.
So much for rising to the occasion.
The flippant conversations that once infectiously permeated my brain
now ceases to effect any of my dulled senses.
Three. 34,000 feet
Two-thousand more to rise, how far to heaven?
Is hell just as far down?
No cubes remain, only their more malleable state
dances around my plasto-cup tainting my freedom.
What started for medicinal causes has shifted focus
now trying to attempt to lift me higher than this plane.
M eyes squint using my lashed to shield the
close looming star we beg to come out each day.
Four. Zero feet.
I wake up, the cabin lights flash
people are hustling and bustling for the escape
Did we crash? Is this San Francisco?
I sure do hope the latter, can I still order a drink?
I press my fists to my eyes, grab the last bottle.
For now I am safe, I think. Drunk and safe.
Five. Too many.
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