This poem first appeared in print in the Spring 2018 issue of Evening Street Review. Order a copy now for 2018 delivery.

The Mechanics of Aerodynamics

Trips begin with high hopes that last
until I reach the ticket counter
and the baggage agent tells me my suitcase is four
pounds overweight and I’ll be charged
accordingly, the airline ignoring
I’m net 26 pounds lighter than my


last flight now that I go to the gym,
like a religion every three days
with my aching joints, a mortgage, the car
leaving oil stains on my garage floor,
a belly that likes a six-pack instead of


looking like one. But I’m there, where some trainer
around 25 in skin tight clothes
protecting no mystery counts down my reps,
tells me I feel great even though she doesn’t
look at me that way, me being 20
years older and she needing to get to the school


and pick up her first grade son who also hates
gym. He’ll have forty years before that
comes back to bite him in the ass.
He’s just happy to see her, fastening
himself securely for the ride home


which at that age, must seem like a vacation.
At least he doesn’t have to clear security
where the full body scan and the distant
examination of all my imperfections
isn’t enough and someone in a uniform
still needs to cop a feel, grab my ass


just to make sure. In some destinations
people pay quite a bit for that. I’m just
happy I can put my belt back on, put
my shoes back on. Happy that someone else
in a necktie and a lab coat figured out


the mechanics of aerodynamics so
I can get out of this place that smells like
a school cafeteria and sounds like
recess on a windy day with the running
and the screaming and the sleeping in plastic chairs.

Copyright © 2018 Jeff Nesheim | All Rights Reserved
First appeared in Evening Street Review.