The Retired Bloke


Sat on a plane

Going quietly insane

Waiting for take off

For traffic control

To allow us 

To take to the air

To wind our way home

Belted in can’t move

Air conditioning

Struggling to freshen

The stifling heat 

The suffocating stuffiness

Feeling tetchy

Irritable and growing irate

Our journey home’s

Going to be intolerably late

I rifle through the magazine

Full of so called brilliant offers

For watches and perfume

But there’s only so many

Times I can manage

To get excited by some 

New fangled gadget

I even read the safety on board card

From top to bottom

Both front and back

Checked the sick bag

All present and empty

At last the engines

Roar into action

Still sat on a plane

But now going home.