A passenger in the row behind calls me a bitch
for reclining my chair on our eleven-hour flight.
My daughter holds her teddy bear to her chest,
looks to every other reclined seat in the cabin
wondering what I have done wrong.
I lounge as if I have not heard his insult
into an execution of how long I can pretend
to be comfortable. You should upgrade to first class
if you don’t like it, is what I imagine I could have said
while in line at the post office or shampooing my hair.
A recurring daydream, where I chuck pistachio shells
over my headrest, knock the fresh whiskey
off his tray table. I do anything but curl
into myself, stare out at the plane’s wing.
My daughter peeping between the small gap
in the chairs as the attendant tucks him in
with a complimentary blanket,
wishes him a pleasant flight.
Photography by: Ramy Kabalan on Unsplash
