By Jonathan Hawkins-Clarke
The stewardess gave a look of surprise.
The package given full of surmise.
Yet, to her, was the lot in process.
Better than, at the seat, left to depress.
It, the airport lounge, had its start,
with an extra wait for the plane to depart.
A small airport in northern Ontario
with not that many to the south to go.
Still, a wait of any degree left its chance
to meet different people, a social dance.
My lot to talk with an Indian, this time,
who led us to the lounge, a place quite fine.
Wherein we had a chat over drinks.
Me, a beer, and he a wine, glasses clinks.
Interesting, for me, never having met
an Indian with knowledge to get.
Finding that he was a chief elected,
and information, his tribe connected.
We chatted on and he bought a drink.
A round of wines, a mix, I did not think.
For, when aboard the airship, we left,
a pleasant lift to the sky and land bereft,
I found the mix aeronautically unsound,
and to the relevant bag stomach unbound.
The flight to the south made its mark
until our terminal allowed us to disembark.
And, then, the decision made at leisure
to save the cleaning crews displeasure.
Jonathan Hawkins-Clarke copyright 4 May 2020
Author’s Note: RRRs exercise to write about a drink too much as happened at Kirkland Lake, Ontario