Sitting in the Vegas airport
             8 hours
waiting on standby without that nagging voice saying my name
             8 hours
deprived of a cigarette.
My lungs are burning
my soul is begging
to taste that sweet cancerous nectar
I have grown to crave.
      Distracted.
            You.
Not over the age of nine.
Gliding through patrons with your hands outstretched
tickling the lilies in the field of your mind.
Clueless to the stress of the airport
unaware of the bells and whistles coming from the destruction of homes
in the form of slot machines.
              Without a care.
Your over-weight drunk of a mother shoves your next meal into a pointless attraction
in hopes of a hot tub you wont be allowed in.
              Without a care.
No, you're not bothered by the
        crying baby
                 ******* couple.
No, you don't notice the nauseating tension of 500 strangers
trapped in a room releasing a stank of
           body odor
                   restlessness
                          distancing dreams.
500 strangers worried about
            work
               money
                    pursuit of material possessions.
No, not you.
You're worried about the sun on your face
the grass between your toes.
Chasing butterflies around the chair spruce
while dodging zombies
             blind to the playground you've imagined.
Hold on to that imagination
            creativity
                  innocence
that years of
             school work
                   parenting
                          American dream
will surely try to destroy.