The drool stain on my shirt widened every minute
where the woman's head rested
on my bony shoulder,
so I was thankful I wasn't wearing white.
I waited for her to stir,
feigning interest in passing clouds.

I thought, I'll ring the flight attendant.
No doubt he's been thoroughly trained
in dealing with such crises.

I thought, I can shrug her off.
If I eye it right, the meaty arm of the man in the aisle seat
will cushion her head perfectly.
Neither will be the wiser.
And if I miss I can blame it on turbulence.

But no — the more time passed the fonder I grew
of her disheveled mass of straw-colored hair,
and the bridge of her whistling nose.
I do love a woman who makes the first move.

When we landed I carried her back to my place.
Though it was awkward at first,
I learned to match her rag-doll rhythm
and loved her amorously,
her shameless snores growing my passion.

Now we have a herd of narcoleptic children.
We take them to the park on warm days.
They loll in their strollers, happily dreaming.
She hangs over my right shoulder,
contented in swaying slumber behind my back.
I'm the envy of all the other dads in town.
"Look, they have their mother's eyelids," I say.

Nicholas Vincent Schuetz recently completed his MFA thesis in poetry at Emerson College in Boston, Massachusetts. He hopes to soon be writing poems somewhere with a warmer climate.