Escape From Newark
Four hours and counting on United Six Forty-Five
Stuck on the runway; not a hope we'd derive
Chicago flights passing as we miss each connection
Cramped on the airplane with no moving direction
Pretzels and bread crumbs our in-flight consumption
Our eventual departure is a hopeful assumption
Control tower's offered little sign we'll be leaving
And with words such as Kilo there's a chance they're deceiving
We've sent for more ice and First Class got a cookie
But as to whether we'll fly soon - make no bet with your bookie
Great, now a baby is crying and my cell phone's gone dead
What I wouldn't give for a sandwich on some fresh, made rye bread
We're off of the plane ... for a moment ... removed from embarking
At Gate 18 stopping, our plane is now parking
Wait! We've re-boarded quite sudden and I'm back in my seat
At least we've made friends on the flight we did meet
The questions remain if we'll take soon to the skies
The door was just closed so let's see what's implied
Happy Days! Hallelujah! The planes in the air
On our way to Chicago; at last we are near.
Copyright SGW 2003
Footnote: I was flying from Newark to Seattle, with a stopover in Chicago. This was 2003 .... The weather was fine and there were no situations in Newark, not even a Mike "The Situation," as far as I know.
Anyway, we sat on the runway for 5 hours. Since the plane ran out of food and water, we finally went back to the terminal gate, got off the plane and crowded into the nearest restaurant. After 15 minutes, we finally got close enough to place an order, at which point we were called back to our plane without getting food.
Back on the plane, we sat another hour before taking off. This inspired me to write a poem called "Escape from Newark," which I then shared with my friend and travel partner. He loved it, but the girl on my other side heard it and asked me to read it again, which I obliged. She, in turn, told the flight attendant.
With about 45 minutes to landing in Chicago, they had me stand in front of the cockpit door and recite the poem over the intercom system. After, I was asked to announce my E Mail address.
Returning home from vacation, I had about 15 requests for copies of the poem, and, just a year ago, a girl wrote to me and said she was on that flight, found my E Mail address, and asked if I would send her a copy of the poem.
So, Bruce Springsteen may have performed at Madison Square Garden. But when he can claim to have put on a show at 30,000 feet, tell him to talk to me!