Just a stupid poem

I went to an Indian dance club

and was immediately reminded

of the strip club in Terre Haute

and the scarred dancers

who attacked the pole as if it were

a terrible memory;

I was reminded of the club in Beaverton

where I saw my first full frontal show.

A dancer showed me

her baby-maker, her baby-feeders,

but not her why-baby-why.

I am not immune.

I went for a walk and saw the towering buildings,

the blue garbed sub-continentals

toiling to re-brick this city.

A Nepalese cab driver ferried me

across Sheihk Zayed road,

the vein feeding this desert, deserted kingdom.

I marveled at the amazing ability of sand.

I am not immune.

The call to prayer started at 4 am.

Keening, vowel ridden words

soared in the humid air,

driven by claxons mounted on every corner.

I stood on my balcony, smoking and watching

the faithful, scattered few scurry to the mosque.

And I hated them.

I am not immune.

I walked along the Arabian gulf,

stepping around the jellyfish

which were washed up on the sand

like discarded, translucent pennies.

I wanted to pick one up, hold it to my chest

and embrace the unavoidable sting.

Because I wanted to feel something.

I am not immune.

I taught a girl how to light a fire.

I remember because I had to hold her hand

while she placed the match under the twigs.

A girl taught me how to make vegetable soup.

I remember because she cradled my hand

while she stirred the broth with a broken wooden spoon.

I remember I soaked her hair in tea, colored her toenails with a purple marker,

touched her face with such infinite trepidation.

I remember because I failed.

I am not immune.