Shhf-shhf-shhf… polyester coats rub against armrests
and lights dim as speakers surge– a signal
to be quiet.
But cellophane crackles like static and a greedy palm fills
with hard-shelled candied noisemakers readily popped
and crunched between teeth.
Salted, greasy fingers rummage in waxed bags
before giving the kernels a good toss– shick shick–
to find that perfect puffed piece.
A rasping, lisping whisper carries– tss tts tss–
from the next row and I watch a blonde head
bob between her seat and the one two to her left.
I give a silent amen that flu season is over.