In the family
Of travelers
Brothers and sisters
Of the world
We bring its people together
Brothers and sisters
Of the world
We bring its people together
Because he tried so hard
To place features
On their bodies
On their faces
Which he just couldn’t recollect
Over time he’d lost
The recollection of the places, too
How odd
That the one crystal clear element
In this one otherwise tortured image
Was the frame shop
Filled with photographs and paintings
Recorded for eternity
As a mother purifies herself
In the waters of the holy Ganga
While her daughters prepare
To leap in, yet again
An hour or so
Every day
On the bench
By the shore
On the edge of the fog
I wonder why
But I think I know
That bridge has been enough trouble
For us
No
For me
Maybe just for me
Even before the fog
A colourful picture
Beautiful
But the focus
Is a little short
The rickshaws
Are sharp
But the people
Are not
An anachronism
A paradox
To a Westerner
Like me
Ice cream, or a popsicle
An orange soda and a danish
While Gary tanked up the car
And made the windshield gleam
There is nothing
More beautiful
Than a moment shared