Two friends of mine,
Both over eighty,
Are flying to Rome
Next week.
They’ve been there before,
Several times.
Why, I ask myself,
Are they submitting
(First class notwithstanding),
To the anguish
Of international flights—
The searches,
The suspect shoes,
Forbidden fluids,
Interminable hours
Locked in a plane?
In my heart I know
They would prefer
The simple pleasure
Of serene routine:
A movie, a play,
A pleasant dinner out
At that amiable
Nearby restaurant.
In my heart I know
The reason.
They sublimate
Their real desires,
Submit to discomfort,
Painful foreign holidays.
The women they’re attached to
Are too young.
(10/3/13)