Lines on a Red-Eye

You shut my eyes like airplane wine along
The red-eye flight from San Francisco, though
I wouldn’t mind foregoing the Merlot
To get a softer bed. And you’re the song
That plays in airline headphones; rarely do
I see you as a gift because you cost
Me far too much. Like February frost
That’s only rain in California, you
Can touch the ground and call it good when I
Would call it muddy. Never mind. May-
Be I am getting old enough to say
I like the plastic cup, and though I try
To call you every insult (growing thinner),
Never could I call you late for dinner.