The Roundtrip

The night-street became one flat shiny mass of asphalt.

Bus wheels, tricycles and bicycles balancing at eye-height.

 

What if time stopped? -  Passers-by wouldn't be passing by.

That vendor would have to bear with the iron on his shoulder.

Buses wouldn’t go past.

Fingers would be stuck inside vaginas, a nose, or an ear, forever.

Time never stops.

I know nothing more here,

on this muddy curb.  

My friend starts up her bike.

We drive through too many flickering streetlights,

eat through boulders of potatoes, fly with Buffalo-wings spread wide on a platter.

Margaritas feed the senses, voices amongst voices fill the air in an upside-down world,

where refugees recite poetry, to re-connect their breath with the breath of the motherland

for peace.

Children are being raped in remote villages finding refuge at schools.

They will tell their stories later.

  

Time will never stop.

The morning smells of roasted coffee beans.

The dusty roadside chases the monkeys on, and me-

wandering amongst random stones- I arch over a vision.

Ancient stone faces come alive, watching their new queen

at leisure from traffic and time, from bored eyes, from broken vows.

Dragonfly-looking butterflies chasing sunshine all the way

onto the tip of a paintbrush  held by someone who isn’t there.

There is, however, an artist by the walls of reality,

making the exact replica of  a postcard. 

I’m too flattered with my own old face.

It’s time.

Checking in on another flight.

Someone yawns loudly into the back of my neck.

It’s all in the air...