Journeys
Poetry

The Disgruntled Traveler: An Experiential Quartet*
​Poetry by Thomas O. Davenport

The Odyssey​
Odysseus made quite a trip to Troy and back
But twenty years of hardship barely measure up
To one plane flight from San Francisco to the east
Six hours of pain endured within a flying beast
 
This ancient Greek with muscled men did labor long
To build a noble wooden horse, then climb inside
Three dozen stinky guys jammed tight, elbow to knee
I know how they felt, as I sit here in 12B
 
This horse was three or four times as big as real life
A mighty beast, of most impressive bulk and heft
About the size that lots of people try to shove
Into the tiny bins for carry-ons above
 
A years-long course the Greeks took back to Ithaca
They headed home with spoils and weapons they had gleaned
A many-dangered trip, it wasn’t like a cruise
You have to wonder—how much baggage did they lose?
 
The cyclops pelted them with rocks of mountain size
He stared at them with one gigantic bloodshot eye
One has the same experience should one dare ask
About the chances of an upgrade to first class
 
With lotus fruit the hungry Greeks their stomachs filled
Their memories erased, the feast they soon forgot
Forget the last airline meal that I had to eat?
I wish I could: two almonds, cheese and chartreuse meat
 
‘Tween Scylla and Charybdis Grecian sailors steered
Heart-brave, avoiding death from monster and whirlpool
But grumpy flight attendants are a greater trial
They smack you with the cart each trip along the aisle
 
We sailors are alike, work-weary travelers
Returning to greet spouses who remain behind
Those left at home to tend the hearth are heard to say:
“Nice odyssey, I’m sure, but what about my day?”
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Flight​
I sit here, angry, bored, depressed
I’d hoped that I’d be headed west
 
But now, I think, the gods of flight
Are sure to punish me tonight
 
The plane is full, I’m not alone
We’re all stuck here, inert as stone
 
We’re stranded now, or so we’re told
Because the air aloft’s too cold
 
This could cause an electric storm
Because the air down here’s too warm
 
I think that there’s a broken part
And so the plane just will not start
 
In truth, why did they make us wait?
Perhaps just this: the pilot’s late
 
It sometimes seems I’ll spend my life
Experiencing pain and strife
 
For airplane travel strains the heart
And stresses every body part
 
And yet, the time will come one day
I’ll shed this mortal coil away
 
On that day, when I’m heaven-bound
I’ll know, at last, I’m off the ground

Traffic
Today is the meeting, the biggest all year
I’ll need 40 minutes to get there from here
The GPS gives me this very good news
It starts in an hour, and so I can cruise
I’ll stop for donut, my favorite nosh
I’ve plenty of time to arrive with panache
 
Drive out of the driveway, right, left, and then straight
I’ve truckloads of time, so no way I’ll be late
Swing wide toward the on-ramp, that curvy asphalt
And that’s when all progress just grinds to a halt
Ahead, endless rows of inert metal blocks 
Not moving at all, they’re like so many rocks
 
Each one is adorned with two glowing red lights
Electric tomatoes, one left and one right
They stretch on forever, and yet they don’t budge
They’d been there for hours, if I were to judge
And meanwhile the clock’s hands are spinning with glee
They mock me, they’re saying, “You’ll never break free.”
 
But then a solution takes shape in my brain
A way that perhaps I can lessen the strain
The carpool lane beckons me, just to my left
A black flowing river, of traffic bereft
The imp on my shoulder says, “Do it, who’ll know?”
My conscience? I dropped that off six miles ago
 
Check mirror and signal, cross over the stripe
I’m nervous for sure, not the law-breaking type
At 75 I can get there in time
And with any luck I won’t pay for my crime
But what’s in my mirror? One more blinking light
Pull over, it tells me, it’s red and it’s bright
 
I come to a halt, I’m resigned to my fate
At least now I have an excuse to be late
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Journeys to Nowhere
I ride astride a bike that has no wheel
A steed with peddles, I’ve been here awhile
No shortage in my effort or my zeal,
The monitor says I’ve gone just one mile
 
Perhaps I’ll now go trot on the treadmill
And pound its rubber pavement with my stride
Past windowed scenery that stays quite still
The best part? I won’t need to go outside
 
Ellipticals trace orbits in one place
Their endless ovoids helping me improve
No worry that I’ll ever lose the race
For knees pump up and down but I don’t move
 
I’ll pull the rower’s bar with my full might
To glide across the non-existent drink
No ocean, sea or lake within my sight
So I need never fear that I might sink
 
So come to my gym, you will see me there
On my kinetic journeys to nowhere
I think, for me, that this is the best news:
I never wear out any of my shoes
​*Three of these verses ("The Odyssey," "Flight" and "Traffic") will appear in Tom's forthcoming book, Get the Hell to Work, to be published by Kelsay Books in 2020. Used with permission. 
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Thomas O. Davenport is an independent writer and business advisor living in San Francisco. He spent 32 years as a human resource consultant for a global consulting organization. He has written three business books and many serious articles and now writes sardonic verse, much of it commenting on business practices he observed (and helped create) and on social phenomena that amuse and bemuse him. You can read his writings (verse and other) at http://www.worklodes.com.
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​The Vistas & Byways Review is the semiannual journal of fiction, nonfiction, poetry and visual arts by members of OLLI at SF State.
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