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Returning by E. Doyle-Gillespie I can hear the Sidewalk Man, cracked leather bible and stolen golf shoes, preaching in front of Christie's Half Moon Cafe' this morning "Wu-man!" And I am waking alone as he bellows "Wu-man! Is you washed in de blud ob de lamb? Has you gots yo' belongin's togethu'? Is ya' sanctified? I hopes so, fo de flud is arisin' again! Yes Lawd!" And somewhere you are walking, flat-footed and smooth I can hear Geoffry yelling in Farsi, or maybe his alley Arabic this time, at the boys who stole the pretzels from his wagon and fed them to the pigeons on the library stairs He curses and I sink back to you in a Tangiers open-air market, short-shorn and sandalfoot, your skin turned sabra-brown by our stay in Seville You are tumbling a rug or, maybe, a hand-woven cloak between your violin fingers and quipping at the hawker "Too rich. Too rich for our blood." You are floating behind women in veils, measuring each step to their's You are peering through arched doorways You are laughing, pulling a quarter from a tiny beggar's ear You are dancing for me with castanets in our hotel room You are blowing bubbles with moist brown lips and asking if it is time to go The Sidewalk Man sings in front of Christie's Half-Moon Cafe now, his voice splintered like dry wood And Otis is pleading to tourists "Gimme hep wud ya'? Hep me, wud ya'? Ah ma vetran an'..." When I slip back to you, my ears are full of castanets, my eyes are full of salt and it is time to leave for home |
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Document last modified on: 08/20/1998