Their Tune

 

You find where you want to be and this
travel thing wears thinner than a weary
negligee, isn’t comfortable as it once
was and reveals more than eyes wish to
behold without blanching; routines long
established are cuckold in an instant of
hyper indecision – if I ever had a valise
which is mine and where is it then?

But that is the last thing – there’s the
cheap airline offer of booking an event
if you commit months in advance, long
before you’ve really gotten a handle on
the whys and wherefore of going, not
that they care – they’ve been paid

But as the day draws near you need to
be reassured it’s OK, so queued on an
endlessly waiting enquiry line you have
heard the words; there’s still an insane
journey via railroad track but a sinecure
compared to airline insouciance

Now travel eve – with a need to pack at
least a week’s worth of underwear and
gifts into decidedly last minute checked
baggage which you’re assured won’t be
a problem as long as you’re at the desk
at least an hour prior to take-off

You’ve set two spare hours aside as an
assurance you’ll be cool and calm before
the plane flies; and you start thinking –
they’ve had me dance to their tune all
along, and yet you’ve still to even begin
what is the real journey to leave
© 21 January 2013, I. D. Carswell