Poetry: August 2007 Archives

Round table, iron pedestal
on a sidewalk, in the sun.

A porcelain cup.

Next to that, a vase

nearly half full of water

which disgorges a lavender Hibiscus.

The man at the table

sips karkade from the cup.

He sweats beneath a hat

and a cream, cotton suit.

He waits on the son of a Sheik.

Another half-hour

and the son arrives.

The man doesn’t stand up.

He nods and says only: “tomorrow.”

Six English guns

against the Germans and the Turks.

From the fingers of the Nile

to the wharf at Taif

then north to Damascus.

The man finishes his tea

and makes ready to leave.

He snaps the flower from the stalk

and pokes the end in his lapel.

The man with the flower walks away.