Please pull over, I’m gonna be sick.
Sunday drives to see the aspen,
To hear the elk bugle,
Through the mountains,
Up windy roads,
Along mountain streams,
I got sick, motion sick.
I qualified, in everything, to pilot:
Physicals, courses, background check.
Except the Air Force didn’t want
Me to throw up in
The oxygen mask.
I couldn’t stand on deck of
The Seattle ferry to Victoria BC
Without barfing, inside was worse.
When my friends sailboat becalmed
And slowly rocked back and forth
Back and forth
Remember barf bags?
Before that when flying with the Air Force
To compete in a drill team contest
The pilot asked me to come into the cabin
and sit in the navigators seat and
listen to the flight radio
and use the oxygen mask.
Later he asked, “How are you doing?”
I took my mask off,
And barfed all over his cockpit.
I wasn’t asked up front on our return.
Dramamine would put me to sleep
And I would barf
The only time I begged spare change
Was in the Kansas City Airport
When I forgot my pills. It’s a humbling experience to beg
Everyone should try it
When flying with a baby I learned
To administer cola sans bubbles
The coloring agent is
Anti-nausea. It works.
Then I discovered Bonine.
Now I can travel anywhere and not get sick.
Except to Hong Kong.
On the long flight, I overran my meds. It was then I met the Angels, two of them.
Two tall costumed Chinese flight attendants
Who scoffed at my cola request
And brought aroma therapy.
I was a happy traveler.