Between a rice field and a concrete highrise:
the remains of a village
(already
half-eaten by the bulldozer) but
two walls
red and gold
stand, confused
their prayer flags still fluttering
in the wind as if
they’d never heard the word
destruction.
Blowing
like the man’s windswept hair
as he stands on the pile of rubble
(his rubble) with
a long handled broom
sweeping, staring
at the walls
red and gold.
He is still there now,
sweeping
staring.
I did not take a picture even though
he wouldn’t have noticed.

My feet are sore,
my neck aches.
Last night I slept on bricks,
a thin blanket
with holes
and it was cold.
Far beyond the reach of thermostats
the only heat is tea.
They pour it
steaming
into dixie cups
with pictures of a hello kitty knockoff
(half the price)
and sit
dignified
in their straight backed chairs.

We cannot speak to each other
but we can share
one thermos of strong green tea and
one slightly bruised apple and
we even get to keep the dixie cups.

My light hair intrigues them:
Where is the heated bus
waiting with matching hats and
big black cameras?
Maybe they’re right, of course
I don’t belong here
but I wish
I could explain myself
to the old woman in the street
shelling peas
on her weathered armchair.

I don’t know of sterile hotel rooms
cruise ships or
extra pillowcases
but
I know how to navigate
where google maps will never go:
through the winding muddy
roads of confusion and spontaneity
where toothless vendors sell hot roasted yams, crispy
almost too burnt on the outside.
I know how to waste a day on
wandering,
lost
between peeling alleyways
so
when I see a man sweeping
I know
how not to take a picture.