You are not my co-pilot.

Neither are you my navigator,
my mission control, nor my ground crew
preparing me for take-off, nor are you
my flight attendant anticipating
my every need, and please do not go
anywhere near baggage claim.
I can handle it myself.  

You are not my co-pilot.

You are, however, the passenger who
never stops talking, the whiny child who
just won’t settle down, the snorer who
snorts in seat 22B, and the seatmate who
insists on reading my palm. You are
the barf bag, the plastic-coated safety directions
no one wants to read. You are
nothing but a pest, pretending
to know what’s good for me.