Returning

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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