Bogota

I am 73 sitting at
Gate 56 at midnight
In the Bogota airport far
From what little bustle or light
Occurs so late at night far from any
Security at the last gate on a dingy
Hallway with only a scattering of
Sleepy souls scattered about,
Midnight in the garden of
Good and evil as I make
My way home via DFW
To Encinitas & Carol
In southern CA.
But first I am
Looking for
Someone
Official
To
Punch
My air ticket
But no one comes
So I sit, read, wait while
Considering kidnapping
Americans is the ninth most
Common occupation in Bogota
Or feels so at so isolated an
Area having flown in from
Lima Peru that afternoon
Over the Andes with the
Amazon on my right
And the Pacific on
My left exhausted
After working on
A big ship from
Florida via the
Panama
Canal
As I
Have
Done these
Last four years
Around the earth
From time to time
And I think perhaps
The New has worn all
Off this life at sea and time
Now to drive a bit around my
Own country with Carol and our
Red dog Rosie to see some of
The places I have read about
In history and meet the folks
Who make America the
Place it is while we
Both still can go
Where we wish
When we wish
As we wish
Far from
Bogota.