Snack Pack Poem by Gay Fay

I’ve just understood:
the longer the flight,
the bigger the pack.
Nashville to Baltimore
nets you one granola bar
and a baglet of peanuts.
Baltimore to Houston is worth a snack pack:
wheat thins, cheese crackers, a big fig newton
and, of course, peanuts.
More calories than
the longed-for dinner at home,
more sugar and fat
than you dare to read on the tiny label.
No wonder we frequent fliers
touch too intimately,
encroaching on the shoulders
of one another’s territories,
leaning against cold glass
or empty aisles
until we hurt,
in pain to save a shrunken dignity.
Thank God,
Baltimore to Manchester
is only a packet of peanuts,
then solid earth and penitential vegetables.