Four strange men

I The Spanish fool

Sitting in the empty space

On the left side of the bench

In the autumn cathedral garden
Is the Spanish fool.

He touches her nose-ring,

Hair and hand,
Praises her beauty hoping

She has no other man.


Too fast, too cool,

He’s trying to get there too soon.

A photograph and a number

He thinks that’ll get her.

“An old trick,” she says.

And walks away.

“The park’s got many more!”

Smiles the Spanish fool.



II The Baget man

“I love baget!”

A Tunisian way

Of stringing together strands

Of broken conversations.

“I make 500, 600 every day.”

“I speak good English, no?”

He says, smiling, and the dimples

Stretch into the burnt lines on his palms

–a tiny price for extra hours

And fruits of freshly burnt cents.

I try, but only half understand
As the sound from his lips

Drowns into the music

Of the harmonious piano.

Playing for those

That are lost in translation.


French, German and Arabic


He tries them all, only to learn

That there’s just one language,

The one that’s no more necessary.


So we dance in the empty bar

Moving to bring

Two distant worlds in line

With words that no longer are
An obligation to building castles in the air.

Then stealing a rare moment
From his laborious days, he tries again.

I love Bagets!”
“I love making Bagets!”
He looks into my eyes.

“But those Bagets very cheap.

You very expensive Baget.

I love Bagets!”

A Tunisian way of saying 
‘I love you’.



III The French souvenir 

Billy Jean on the piano

And the man from a French
Souvenir shop.


The rose from a Bangladeshi

Flower vendor—

The cold of the rainy night.

The ‘I love Paris’ lighter,

The Indian clove cigarette,

The smoke that smells of us.

The things you said

The words I didn’t.

And the moments that were lost

In a picture you,

A picture me,

A picture of us.

From Bonjour to Bisou

And Good night to see you.

Just words of the French souvenir,

Of Billy Jean still beating my heart

And the petals still dancing inside
A notebook from a long time ago.



IV The Israeli night

There’s difference between a Berliner,

Four vodka and berry shots.

It’s the distance between the lips

Of an Indian dance and an Israeli song.

He speaks of Tel Aviv
Of Palestine and Israel

And his small town somewhere
Far beyond my dream.

I, of Indian summers

In the cold of this night,

Of Mumbai rains and the little

Joys of my life.

The night’s no longer cold.
Melted in the heat of clasped hands

And the warmth of the dance,

It turns bold.

When the music’s over

Our lips will sing to the tune

Of passion where our divorced

Worlds will meet in peace.