This little sand and loam peninsula

Is sparse and grows but mesquite and live oak—

No Mediterranean olive trees

Mild climate and taxes have brought bums &

Entrepreneurs—meth labs & retirees

In ever growing sprawl eating horse farms

Nearly every street ends appendix-like

With a circle to turn around where leaves

Rustle as doubting winds swirl in spirals

It is just optimal design to build

Developments with stubby roads that branch

To smallest builder’s lot that can be sold

Connection has no need since cars all bring—

And every house a fortress with moat has

Commodity hard piped or wired for ease

Now Christmas Season adorns with bright lights

Though merriment at times seems far from some

And garish glare does make night stars remote

So far from my sailor’s heart that did roam

Across vast oceans inspired by old tales

Where every pin-point high above delights

Into dark regions filled with glaciers

Or coasts where nothing friendly could be seen

Inside uranium-heart whale-machine

Not so for Xenophon and his thousands

Wandering and fighting through snow cap’d peaks

Searching for rippling turquoise of home seas