Chance Takes Care Of Everything
by Ken Head

Nobody realises how much longer it’s going to take

than the delay we’ve been warned about

for mechanics to replace a door-seal warning light

until we see our captain and crew,

who should be finishing pre-flight checks

on board, coming back into the departure lounge

and being spirited efficiently away

as if they’re the cause of the problem

by a squad of armed police who emerge

unnoticed through an inconspicuous door.



Behind the information desk, besieged staffers

trying their best to evade questions

they’re not supposed to answer

at the same time as soothing passengers

who’ve always known it was bound to happen

to them one day, can’t disguise their relief

when reinforcements arrive and surround us.

Fifty or so soldiers, pumped-up like gridiron jocks

inside their body armour, persuasive reasons

for kissing our travel plans goodbye.



In no time, tractors are towing away our 'plane

while a voice rasping over the p.a.

explains the new reality: a bomb threat, departure

postponed, all of us incommunicado

until the aircraft’s cleared to fly, which may be

some time. So, beneath the racket of voices,

people get busy, re-calculating time differences,

coming to terms with obsolete schedules,

the prospect of listless, jet-lagged waits

in transit lounges they’re none too keen to see.



We do the best we can to switch off disgruntlement,

swallow the impatience we use to cover

fear, because somewhere on the airport perimeter,

out of reach of prying eyes, an arc-lit Boeing,

as carefully guarded as us, is being strip-searched,

made safe, its fuel tanks pumped out, holds and galleys

emptied, cabins gone through with a fine toothcomb.

When we leave, the only bags coming with us

will be the ones we own to on the tarmac.

Whatever isn’t vouched for will be destroyed.



As happens sometimes, if we’ve too many hours

to kill and no way of damping down memory,

we discover we’re both re-running the same

thoughts, of a friend this time, flying home

from seeing her newborn grandchild for the first

time, who died when a typhoon hit only moments

after take-off. She looking forward to retirement,

the pilot’s decision inexplicable. Why didn’t he

wait? we ask, intent on seeming rational, as people

are when fear not spoken of begins to grow.



©2008: Ken Head