In Answer, Three Years On

The blowhole sphincter pulses,
Expelling steamy, hot breath,
Into the sultry desert air.
Blinding sunlight reflecting on sand.

Mirages dance before his eyes,
In this bleak but promising land.
How did he get here?
Chasing phantom seals again.

He hears squeaks from the blue and white ocean.
The pod, not far behind, lingers,
Not daring to follow their unelected leader,
But uncertain without their steady compass.

Gnats gather,
About his eyes and blowhole.
An unwelcome and ill-timed annoyance,
The insignificant rising up.

His black skin boils,
Drying out like spilled gasoline,
He imagines his bleached bones in the sun,
Flesh picked clean by carrion.

I came ashore in error, he thinks,
Now I understand at long last,
Why my predecessors,
Fled this parched land.

He thrashes his fluke in fear and arrogance,
Like Thor pounding cabbage,
The tide is going out,
On this misadventure.