Ode to the Development Worker
Another soulless hotel room,
The empty incantations of the Captain and
the tired pre-flight litany,
A perilous taxi sanctified by a plastic flower
We ply between the complacent shores of plenty
and the torpid shores of want.
A solitary table in the company of the
Tired eyes etched with cynicism,
searching for the Holy Grail
In a sun washed paradise scarred by
poverty and power.
I want nothing more than to sleep in my own bed,
for the touch of family,
and to eat home food.
But a few days and I'm on the road again,
Ordained by the notion that I can make
in a hotel room in Nairobi