To the Man in First Class Who Will Not Look at Me Today - Marjorie Saiser

To the Man in First Class Who Will Not
Look at Me Today
We come on, the general boarders,
we file by and our line slows and I am
the end of it, in the aisle of the first class compartment,
waiting, one hand behind me for the handle of the bag with wheels,
one hand in front with my carry-on. You,

having no particular place to focus
and having finished or forgotten your copy of whatever you read,
look briefly at my sweater, my red beads.
Briefly briefly past my face face face.
I catch on fast. I look out your window to the tarmac, to the
four-wheeled side-less topless vehicle with orange cones
piled on it. I focus on its faded triangular flag
flapping like a tongue. The steward

begins his spiel into his microphone:
overhead and baggage and compartment and stow,
and I am the end of the line, I can't move
forward, can't pass your steel-wool chest hair
at the neck of your unbuttoned shirt,
your thick gold chain

and I am sweating, waiting,
my too-much baggage like an anchor in the aisle.
I have dragged it through the airport,
airline to airline, my original flight last-minute cancelled.

Hey, first class
Hey, gold chain
I am 4D, the rows they call last

I am sweaty, I made it this far, I made it-
my black turtleneck reeking,

my hands full-I blow the hair out of my right eye.

Hey, leg room
Hey, ice cubes
Live a little.
Relax.

~Marjorie Saiser