Outside the airport on an overhead walkway
Amidst the cold, dry, summer night
Smoke pours, whiffs, then dissipates
As I inhale on a cigarette of dreams

Below the walkway a fire truck is nesting
Resting, anticipating, red lights turning
While policemen and firemen are coniving to themselves
Maybe to put out the flames of a burning desire
A better life, a nicotine escape
From domestic grievances
Of a third-world dampness

Besides me, three fellow countrymen speak
Also with burning pencils between their fingers
Attempting to trace their destiny in the sky
But I hesitate to enter into their conversing
And instead puff on deeper thoughts
Of things yet to come

Eventually they leave
Then the tobacco stick between my fingers chars down
To a brown filtering reality
Better left in a nearly-filled ashtray
Of burnt-down desires and nicotine escapes

The policemen wave good bye
The firemen pack-up
A job well done perhaps, or a false alarm
I walk towards the inside with the hope to someday
See the smoke of dreams
In the Land of Milk and Honey, amidst the cold, dry, summer night
Up amongst the clouds