Beach, Jacob Roosa

 

 

 

i.

tightly spun egyptian cotton,

imported of course,

wraps up your wet body

like it did for pharaohs.

 

you picture kings who lounged

about in silken kimonos

watching the bronzed laymen

selling their city’s idiosyncratic spices

in a marketplace, so bazaar.

 

you hear only the slipperiness

of their foreign, exotic languages.

so oriental, like grass flutes

whispering into your ear. But wait!

don’t forget to buy a lovely souvenir.

ii.

south of cobbled temple street,

steps away from the night market

old popo sells her kiwi lychee

passion dragon jack fruit juices

from a makeshift bamboo stand.

 

she gestures me over to buy a cup.

old popo’s sharpie-inscribed chinese scrawled

onto cardboard is a makeshift menu

That proudly advertises her wares.

 

i can’t read chinese, surprise me.

and she winks. 1990’s commercial juicer

still works because of popo’s white haired wisdom.

her ingenuity: a toothpick keeps the juicer

spinning pears into pear juice. drink…

or take a picture. it will last longer.