The Last Resort
It is warm
The bleached blue haze
Low in the sky
Confirms it
 
The breeze comforting
company
The keys on the keyboard
Hot to the touch
 
For five minutes
I could convince myself
I am elsewhere
 
Instead I am surrounded
by tree covered hills
perfectly hilly in shape
and size
 
No sounds apart from the
Distant rumble of a
Plane on its way
And golf carts carting
Industrialist weekend golfers
And healthy looking
Hong Kongers to
the driving range
 
Vodka calls me
In a tall glass with
Ice would be nice
I could pretend to be
A writer on the orient.
I haven’t craved a fag in months
til now
 
Under regimented palm trees
the most elegant I have seen
unruly today are dancing
By a lake
and me on my veranda feet up
 
Truth be told I’d
Rather take a
Golf cart with my vodkas
And shout and disrupt
This bourgeois retreat
And tell them this sucks
And that their massive fee
Could feed a family of fifty three.
 
However I’m seduced for now
I have worked for 4 weeks straight
To be warm in February
is a  rarity, it is nice.