Curled in twos, a humid sheet
dust and sweat and tired feet
a week on shore, through hotel glass
the city, she says, reflected.
Pinched in rows of dour lots
they haggle over weaver’s knots
an air-conditioner clears its throat
the equator, says he, perfected.
Sour tongues, an acrid surface
photos with no face or purpose
their thoughts are on another land
where coins await in fountains.
Five and one, the days melt by
’til taxis shrink, and tarmacs fry
they’re holding hands to pass the hours
next stop, they say, the mountains.
While crossing sleepers on the scree
the question stirs with every tree
“How long?” she asks, he plays the mime,
“How long are we to stay this time?”
Illustrated Shorts 