I miss the sand four thousand miles away:
Its thrilling heat; its powerful dominance;
Its omnipresent, infiltrating trance.
I really hope to make it back one day.
On every crushing flight and soulless site
Hope loiters in a voyeur corner seat,
On watch for nods, sighs, something more concrete,
His cocktail large, his sipping slow and slight.
Contractual nerve is fishing line to C:
Lawyers are lining up to join the band
And pencil-licking moneylenders grin.
If anything's worth anything, I'll be
Returning to the beautiful dry land,
Expecting nothing, wishing for a win.