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Hamsin
Dumbstruck by an absent tide
‘flat as a plate’ fishermen say
casting syllables into glass
rippled flings that sink and die
No bites today, landlubber
sardine angler packs his rods
‘hamsin’ choking sea and beach
to laundered weary sameness
A cobbled trudge from harbor
past open doors where old men
sit at tables, cards close to faces
statues plastered with old clothes
Where if you stop and watch them
long enough you may discern
a fly perched on a half filled cup
change position, a wrinkled finger
Play a king, slow drag of nargila
drift of smoke, then silence
Perhaps the heat will break by
week end, the sun baked dust
repeats a well worn sigh - inshalla
© Johnmichael Simon
2006
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