It’s going to be a little rough descending
the pilot says.
His baritone sports a negligee of guilt
as if climate change is Delta’s fault.  

We buckle up.  

It’s turbulence, but the new kind,
scared squared with an F word,
shaking us like dice in a craps cup.  

I squeeze your hand and try to divine
whether wings are tipping, dipping, 
as if something between my ears
can bring them to level.  

After it’s over, the flight attendant says:
For your own safety, remain in your seat
with your buckle fastened in case there’s
turbulence.  

Unrestrained by manners, a mutter
explodes like spit sailing from my lips:  

No shit!