No flat filet of anchovie
Is half so snug as you and me
Packed oh so cozy, close and tight
Tube-travellers on a Southwest flight

Tucked in a soft reclining chair
We breathe the keroscentic air
Peanuts and cheese-nips for a feast
Cuisine de Southwest, flying east

With nearly nothing on our plate
Let's use our near-starvation state
Creatively, for we can fly it
As an impromptu enroute diet

Charon the captain of our flight
We jet across the Styxian night
Yet hopeful that beyond the gates
Some bona fi-de' food awaits

Airline Infernal ! Flight Eternal !
Scribble, scribble in your journal
Never, ever go again, with this mechanicien
No more the lines, no more the crunch
But if you just must; pack a lunch.

that they might write of porcelain
fiction,  
     that they might don cloaks
and masks and attend the Venetian
carnival, in poem and dream
alone?
            seems such a waste,
a waste when paralleled,
          by a tartar stake and stale
bread yesteryear,
   or yesterday's ko'h'giel mo'h'giel:
3 eggs yokes blitzed
to a pale canary (almost)
           foam with ~2 teaspoons
of sugar, dolloped over like
       an ice sheath over the styxian
black, arabica...
             with the remaining:
      eaten like one might:
       cookie dough...
the raw the autobiographical,
better still,
    no minor truth every looks
sappy or boring,
   not, esp. when weaved into
ciphers of metaphor.