Theatre en l'avion

Roxanne Hartfield

Trek up the softly beaten track.

Tight-zipped and powder-clouded attendants

Those who grip and rip our dream tickets.

Bienvenue! With French-tinged accents

Peeking bleached teeth under sore smiles.

A tunnel of gray echoes, quivering

footsteps hesitating forward into the aisle.

Spacey luxury spots for the resplendent rich,

frontrow seats.

Clearing the corridor we tramp,

Eyes sifting through people-stocked rows.

They have dressed for the occasion.

Our Coachcouches endanger stage view.

Slumping seats hide

Programs of pixel screens pronouncing the players.

Attention, si'l vous plait!

Gray curtains curve downstage for the French attendant,

A silent applause for no Delay.

A voice travels parallel to her unspoken lips.,

Her mic found in seat belts and floating devices.

We listen, le audience de patience.

Hotesse de l'air retreats, and actors take the stage.

Our main character crackles overhead,

Another wave of French welcomes.

Signs above clicks on red, the lights dim.

The melliflous overture taxis to the beginning,

Orchestral speed reaches maximum,

The crimson curtain rises with the passengers.

Excitement perfumes waft from velvet-cushioned rows.

The show is about to begin.