A Traveler's Lament

This poem came out of an experience of mine. I and a plane filled with passengers were told the captain who would pilot our aircraft was late. We were in a small plane on the baking tarmac at the Phoenix airport. Sky Harbor is what the facility is called. The only thing to remotely suggest a harbor was the waves of heat rising around us. As we sat there perspiring, I wrote this short traveler's lament.

The captain is late,
Well, isn't that great!
He's holding us up,
I guess that's our fate.
It's past time to go.
I'm certain he'll show,
But as we wait, the time goes slow.

How very annoying.
It's getting quite old,
As we roast on the tarmac,
Our lives on hold.

Here he comes with a MacDonald's sack.
We can see he's eating a big Mac,
We all want to just give him a whack.
He's all relaxed, but we're about to crack.

We talk of getting even, of paying him back.
We'll sing 99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall,
Followed by verses of Kumbaya,
All the way to Omaha.
That will serve him right for making us wait,
Just maybe then he'll learn not to be late!
Doma