The complete poemearlier and revised versions, in full
“Turbulence”
The twenty-something blonde offered
to lift my suitcase to the overhead compartment.
The thin boy with glasses said he’d push my cart
if I wanted help to my car across the lot.
The high school girl behind the glass
slid a senior ticket without my asking.
My principal inquired, “When will you be retiring?”
My neighbor, close in years, has cancer.
My doctor said men my age
have difficulty peeing.
I’ve taught stories of rites-of-passage
my whole career—
a first kiss,
the first date,
marriage,
children.
When the young woman looked at me
and offered to take my luggage,
I thought of these rites,
and the Last Rites, too.
As the plane rose through the clouds,
I felt turbulence.
Beyond the rain-pattered window
was solid blackness.
I saw an old man.
I knew what lay behind me.
I knew what lay ahead.
How strange that an act of kindness
made me think so much.
When we landed,
the suitcase seemed heavier.
My exit was clear.
The twenty-something blonde offered
to lift my suitcase to the overhead compartment.
My principal inquired, “When will you be retiring?”
My neighbor, close in years, has cancer.
When the young woman looked at me
and offered to take my luggage,
I thought of rites-of-passage—
a first kiss, the first date,
marriage and a child,
and the Last Rites, too.
The plane rose through clouds.
Turbulence. Rain-pattered darkness.
I saw an old man
in the window’s reflection.
Behind: everything lived.
Ahead: the solid blackness.
When we landed,
the suitcase seemed heavier.
My exit was clear.
Earlier text from the earlier reading copy of Crossings on this site. Revised text from Crossings.
The thin boy with glasses said he’d push my cart
if I wanted help to my car across the lot.
The high school girl behind the glass
slid a senior ticket without my asking.
My principal inquired, “When will you be retiring?”
My neighbor, close in years, has cancer.
My doctor said men my age
have difficulty peeing.
My principal inquired, “When will you be retiring?”
My neighbor, close in years, has cancer.
As the plane rose through the clouds,
I felt turbulence.
Beyond the rain-pattered window
was solid blackness.
I saw an old man.
I knew what lay behind me.
I knew what lay ahead.
How strange that an act of kindness
made me think so much.
The plane rose through clouds.
Turbulence. Rain-pattered darkness.
I saw an old man
in the window’s reflection.
Behind: everything lived.
Ahead: the solid blackness.
The early poem gathers six small signs that the speaker has grown old: a cart, a senior ticket, a question about retirement, a neighbor’s illness, a doctor’s remark, an offer to lift a suitcase. The revision keeps two, set as single-line stanzas, and lets the young woman with the suitcase stand for the rest. With fewer examples, each one perhaps has more room.
The flight changes in the same way. “I felt turbulence” becomes the one-word sentence “Turbulence.” The old man, who had been simply “seen,” is now found “in the window’s reflection,” so the reader may realize, along with the speaker, that the old man is himself. The line that commented on the poem, “How strange that an act of kindness / made me think so much,” is gone.
A suggestion. In a passage that lists many examples, you might try keeping only the two or three that matter most to you, and see how the passage feels.