And still no one has invented
the turbulence-resistant tray table.
Glass bounces, guamoto juice
leaps onto my vest, where,
thankfully, anti-stain
programs immediately activate.
But still it amazes me:
If they can put a Rosamusak
on Guarthanelium, why can’t
they convince beverages
to remain in their containers?
“We apologize for the bumps,”
croaks the intergalactic translator at my elbow.
“We’ve run into an unexpected meteor shower.”
It reminds me of “The Book of Revelation,
the Sequel,” where Jehovah
says to the Earthlings,
“We apologize for the bumps,
we’ve run into an unexpected Armageddon.”
Ten billion spilled that day, I’ve heard.
Still, that’s what they get
for living on a tray table.
