People rush to shove their bags overhead Like a herd of wildebeest and you’re mufasa.
They prance and prowl about in this tiny aisle, knocking you sideways.
Before reaching far-flung corners of the world,
They’ll fling their luggage tags at you,
Run over your big toe
And elbow you in the cheek, arm or collar bone
Without any sort of apology.
Overhead space is like prime real estate
Because we’ve got so much stuff,
So many creams, so many serums,
So many outfits and hair products
A ball of mad capitalism.
Tall, quick-footed parents step over you to claim their space,
Older lemon-faced ladies moan at the lack of legroom,
Children sit scared in their seats and tap away on their Samsungs.
And the stuff piles up, high above our heads,
Weighing us down both here and there.
talking to my pillow. 