Air con rescues us from the awful sun.
Belize has drained me, heavy air stealing
my strength. Strewn out, soldiers sleep in teeming
masses; I call them forward, my voice blunt.
After orders, some look awkward; they slump,
bergens, phones, wallets drop with increasing
haste. Flash of orange, blue, green, deceiving
is impossible: more amnesty junk.
We tramp the pan, laden like mules. Concrete
shimmers as lizards scuttle off under
rocks. The aircraft awaits, its thunderous
engines roaring. Paperwork prepped to greet
the crew. Nine-hour flight; I hope to hunker
down and sleep. Get home, turn around, repeat.
If you have any comments on this poem, Ross Turner
would be pleased to hear from you.