Shards of glass lie
Among the cigarette wrappers
Scraps of paper
And rotting fruit peels
That cats use as their playground
When they have time to play.
White Pugeot Junior
Whisks around the corner
On the narrow street
Past men smoking shihshahs
Veiled women
Palm trees
Red flags marred by a white star and crescent.
Little markets line the streets
Selling tabac and Boga and couscous
Along with the Pepsi and Marlboros
And boys on bicycles maneuver their way
Through traffic
On a road hardly wide enough for two cars
No sidewalks
No guardrails
No streelights
No curbs
Just white stone buildings
Three stories high.
Aged yellow by the headlights
The air lingers stale
With gasoline, smoke, and dirt.
We choke our way through downtown
And across a bridge
Past the cold white light of Independence Square
Where a bastion of crimson flags hang
Limply wishing they had a breeze.
Dark alleys link
Like dancers locking arms
The sound of the engine
Changes as we shift gears.
I sit quietly in the back
Leaning on denim cushion
Wishing we had air conditioning
Glad I could speak enough French
To make myself understood
I crane to see out the window
To see the stars
In the sky that hangs above us all.