Of Mice Not Men

That we could fly
More than eight miles high
Crammed like canned sardines
As we reproach an unencumbered sky

That we could sit
With no hope of exit
In a darkened movie tube
Where the sun is told to quit

That we could eat
What masquerades as meat
While heavy carts cruise aisles
Nearly crushing our chilly feet

That we could pretend
How endless flights must end
While seeking sanctuary in the heads
Whose mess and smell offend

That we could smile
Mincing desperation with guile
As we cave in to our nerves
And make itineraries up the aisles

That we could think
That we’re finally in the pink
Because the plane just touched down
And now we’ll make our next link

That we could hurry
To the carousel of baggage slurry
Where dreams and schedules are crushed
And patience erupts in fury

That we could actually believe
That our personals will be retrieved
But without socks and underwear
How can anyone be received

That we could possibly defend
Technology that makes mice of men
Historians must be wondering
If lead plates are in fashion again