Evan Vandermeer

I promised myself
that when this plane lands
I will have something
to show for it, and given
these first rumblings
of high-altitude turbulence—
the seatbelt light
having just lit up like a Christmas tree—
I better hurry
and get something presentable down
before it’s too late. At least 
I can lose myself (thank you,
little pink pill) in the movie
playing on the back of the headrest
directly in front of me. Without headphones, 
it’s a largely silent film, largely because 
I’ve seen it enough
to hear the music and dialogue
in the back of my mind. And now,
the flight attendant wheels up
and offers an array of non-perishable snacks:
pretzels, wafers, or cookies, and like a fool
I choose the pretzels (a sad
last meal), but my wife is kind enough
to offer me one of her cookies, which 
I eat so quickly in a single bite
she can’t help but comment
on my inability to savor anything
but coffee, the only thing
I’ll slow down to enjoy. Right then—
as if on cue—Will Ferrell’s character
takes his own first sip of that black nectar
and grimaces in pain, almost as if 
he had swallowed a thumbtack.

EVAN VANDERMEER is an emerging writer with published poems in Grand Little Things, Analecta, Kingfisher, Modern Haiku, bottle rockets press, and Wales Haiku Journal, and more has been accepted for publication in forthcoming issues of McQueen’s Quinterly, hedgerow, Presence, and contemporary haibun online. He will graduate in May 2022 from the MA English program at Indiana University South Bend, where he lives with his wife, Megan.