surrounded by cracked desert soil,
suspended in hot fumes of asphalt,
a runway, bearing a casket,
and heat, pushing breath to a boil.
we wait, in the sun slowly baking,
for glitter of wings, for a sound;
for the aeroplane soon to be taking
the body away from the ground.
we wait, as the stench of the coffin
slowly thickens, digesting our lungs,
the best of us, one by one, dropping
under the blackening sun.
and, standing alone with the lonely,
my friends charred in cuneiform poses,
I’m a little prince, leaving with only
the sweet smell of too many roses.