You come down the aisle
in ala carte style.
methodically, you lock the cabinet on wheels
that steals my attention,
instinctive prevention.

It’s a survival-of-the-fittest thing
So that you bring
Me a drink.

Eyes look up
Longingly for a cup.
“notice me” they blink,
motioning for a drink.
“Fan-freakin’-tastic” I think.

Your serving everyone but me
I’m sitting here, hands free
Fingers on the traytable unfolded
Tracing an empty cup indention molded
Into the plastic,
“Fantastic.”

Then your lips move setting sail
To words that prevail
In the motion of your lips.
A precursor to my sips?
I couldn’t hear what you said
Over the hum of the airplane,
Panic is sent to the brain.

Confused, I sniff my armpits

I thought the lips I read had said
“Good that you don’t stink.”
Turns out she had said instead,
“Wouldn’t you like a drink?”

But since I was checking for armpit slime,
I didn’t respond in time
And I’m now left with out a drink
Sitting in fictitious stink.