Listening to world leaders' opinions whether the plane that left Sharm el Sheike Airport a week ago was brought down by a bomb or had another problem, I remembered a poem I wrote on a plane in Chicago a long time ago; so I went looking for it.  Found it.  It still startles me, which, I guess, is a function of poetry.

PLANE DELAYED IN CHICAGO

The plane was scheduled to leave Chicago at 3:32 p.m.,

but at 3:45 p.m. the sterile voice of the service agent

announced that we would be at least a few more minutes because some unspecified thing was wrong with the airplane,

something which had to be repaired or replaced,

leaving me with a bright clear longing for another airplane.

At four o’clock another service agent said hesitatingly

that we would not know until four thirty if we could leave

and that we were not to try to leave the airplane

because the problem was being addressed and might be fixed.

Now, I don’t know about anyone else on the airplane,

but I didn’t want this one anymore, not at all.

What I wanted was a brand new one

that had been flown on a dozen very successful test flights

and was guaranteed by God to be air worthy.

Thirty-two thousand feet in the air is not a good place to be

if things start to go wrong that need to be fixed.

I trust it will be someone who stays on the plane

who finally decides that it is perfectly all right to fly,

not the smooth talking service agency

whose only problem is maneuvering through Chicago traffic

to get home in time for dinner.

April 20, 1992