LEAVING MONTEVIDEO

The horizon is seven eights sky. Which is three quarters
White-grey cloud, with patches of clear blue. Beyond the runway,
Rich grass and a low line of trees, interrupted by a
Pillar of smoke from a distant, inexplicable fire.

The airport has been renovated since I was last here.
The ad-hoc kiosks and free calls to the city have gone.
It’s run by an Argentine company. Duty-free beige trimmed by
Lurid info tabs; maximising floor-space as profit centre.

Which is a kind of progress in most people’s eyes. The seats
Are more comfortable. Should the prosperity voted for,
Longed for, emerge, there will be more of this modernity
Peppering the city, ubiquitous new century signs.

It’s the Western travellers paradox to pursue the indigenous
In aspic, set within a culture whose ills are not so stringent
They shroud the view with first world guilt. So, against my sentimental
Judgement, I say bring on the standard beige, the duty-free, the norm,

If in so doing you bring on a world where friends live free from the
Economies of fear. But should wealth be annexed by the few, so often
True, then let sentiment prevail and paint the beige another shade.
No harm will come to the horizon, or the fire that burns, inexplicably.


carrasco airport 2.11.04 (day of the dead/ us elections)