A Case For Helmets
Mother Theresa steps off the curb of any
Sidewalk in Rabat
Seventeen times a day.
Karl Lagerfeld* drives a beat up scooter
With a rusted frame, thin wheels, and
Makes it look good in his
Two piece suit which --
With [un]iconic salt [and pepper] hair --
(As I've heard them call her)
He zooms twice daily
While the men without eyes in the Medina
Wonder where the women's hearts have gone.
Also they consider the audio irony of traffic paint
And miss, surely, the so-silent gait of feral cats
As they prod down a polyester lined alley
Freshly rinsed by barrels of sardine Atlantic
Or Bouregreg salt water
Like sour, spiced milk.
I had never seen a dead body/person,
A knife fight,
An infant on the handlebars,
A pack of wild dogs so
Helmet and reck less,
Home-abandoned selves like
Sea-foam green fractured windshield glass.
The call to prayer used to start at five, though
But Lagerfeld never has time --
*Or is it Nick Wooster
Or Bill Cunningham?
I've forgotten how to spell the color blue
Lately, truly. --
And Mother T is, by now, a bit bored
Blessing and blessing and
Stepping off these glass-glittered curbs.
Who broke the news to the man's family?
The lifetimes of Westernized heartbreak you drive past on a Wednesday in Rabat.