Flight To Hong Kong Poem by Rachael Swiss

omelette.
yellow. flaccid. phallic.
uncircumcised prick in seat 54A
i did not eat it,
nor the sausage,
or any other food fit for a thai king
or not fit for one of
jeremy iron's predators.
the tomato exploded.
i'd like to lance his head
with the cord to my earbuds
and make it look like that tomato.

there is a beautiful aryan behind me.
he looked at me like i was a slice of
german chocolate cake.
his hand crept through the crack
between the window and the chair,
searching for my shoulder
which shrugged indifferently.
it is the wrong hand.

come fly with me.

we will go to cabo
and the omelettes will be replaced
with juevos rancheros
mezcal and beaches and sunsets
and i can watch the sweat bead up
on your brow.
we'll break the sound barrier in waves
we'll build sand castles with french doors
and climbing ivy improvised from seaweed.