Asr

And I sit in the café
on the corner of
Al Nasr and Tariq bin Ziyad
sipping an espresso and smoking
my first cigarette in years (just
couldn't resist) with the women
in their burqas and the men
in their robes and their head scarves (odd man
out except
for the smoke) and I am pale, only a few days' growth
on my face and I am trying (perhaps overly so)
to smile (as they bowandscrape and
holddoors and carrymythings -- I appreciate it but
it'snotneccesary -- nopleasesirmeesterdavidpleasenoproblem).

When I want to avoid
The Conversation,
I tell the cabbies (Pakistan, Pakistan,
fameely left behind smiling eager
through their mustaches) I am
Canadian.

And I spend a rich man's money, a permanent
transient like the men shipped
in at two hundred a week (eight hour shifts twelve to a room two to a bed)
who serve my coffee and clean where I shit
and it's more than they could hope
to earn at home (but my presidents
are worth more here in the stern sun
green and crumpled they hide
their faces
in my perfect pocket).

Flickering light-- the television:
Across a wide stretch of salt
a man with a familiar name
shakes hands, makes promises.
They like him here:
his name, his face.
Across a wide stretch of salt
his name, his face
breed suspicion, fear.

The cigarettes
are Marlboro Lights (disappointing:
I had hoped for something local) and
apart
from the Arabic and the
morbidly elaborate health warning,
I am a child
in quiet suburbia (cool air,
warm bed, no fear) and it's
amazing how quickly the old reflexes
tamp, tear, put fire in my lungs.

After two drags,
I put it out. I choke;
feel dizzy.