Scribblings

Egypt

Sound drenches the market,

As though the Nile has sonically flooded its Banks.

I am drowning in sound.

Men smoke looped serpentine pipes,

Drink sweet mint tea from ornate glasses.

Women haggle in the Olympics of haggling,

Beneath peak a boo veils.

The air is heady dense with cumin and turmeric.

Every cop on the corner wields a Kalashnikov.

Prayers flare from loudspeakers on the mosques;

Throat glob vowels and clipping diphthongs.

"Hola, Hola Pepsi cola

Ferrari Lola, Ferrari Lola."

The Street vendors speak

In the Franca Lingua of trademark and Inc.

After the market, I am led

By a shadow silhouette Bedouin woman,

Atop a jackass stubborn camel,

Across the shallow valley between the dunes.

She is clad from sand to scarf in black.

She makes her daily flatbread beneath

The embers of a burnt-out fire,

Adding ashen detritus to yellow.