On Hiding the Travel Section From One’s Wife

Of all the wrongs I’ve done in my life
There’s none that’s worse (I’ll explain it in verse)
Than the crime I commit (which I hereby admit)
When I hide the travel section from my wife.

As soon as the Sunday papers arrive
I’m outside like a shot
Extracting the stories of far away places
That she’ll want to visit, and I’ll not.

The glowing accounts of white sandy beaches
Hold no sure allure for me.
The quaint B&B in a village obscure
Is nowhere where I want to be.

But they act upon her as incense on a nun
Conjuring visions of vacation fun.
The image I see when the newsprint I smell
Features storm-tossed seas ‘neath an airplane from hell.

The girl behind me is kicking my seat.
“Can I please give her some kind of narcotic treat?”
“Behave,” says my wife, “and don’t make a scene.”
“Have it your way, but she must be eighteen.”

“You’re doing great, Mia,” I hear her dad say.
“Just six more hours ‘till we reach LA!”
And on the way back, it’s hard to believe,
But it truly got worse, if you can conceive.

An errant toddler, her wanton brother
A homely aunt, an oblivious mother.
The youngest of all thinks the thing to do, is to
Stand on her seat, and hurl her shoe.

The fatuous steward (his mom must be proud!)
Collects the garbage while the girl screams out loud.
I’ve not heard the call of the Irish banshee
But I’m certain it cannot be much worse than she.

Her brother’s attempting to smother the girl
Now there’s a good deed that will improve the world.
On sororicide, I’m quick to agree.
If it means an extra bag of free peanuts for me!

We land; on the ground I stagger around
And think of sleep with anticipation,
But turn to my spouse, feeling somewhat a louse,
And say “Thanks for a great vacation.”

Available in print and Kindle format as part of the collection “The Girl With the Cullender on Her Head (and Other Wayward Women)” on amazon.com.