Sonnet for Endless Flight

At thirty seven thousand feet we cruise,
a "Vigne Elisa" settling jangled nerves.
A menu! Look! But nothing much to choose.
I ask. An aisle goddess gently serves.

A steady stream towards the rear await
their turn to genuflect, then to their seat
return, a little fresher. "Are we late?",
I hear at thirty seven thousand feet,

and wonder, if we are, what might be done?
I ache. I shift my legs and back and butt.
The afternoon gives way to evening sun.
The menu item grumbles in my gut.

Another glass of red would be so sweet.
I rest, at thirty seven thousand feet.