Two months of freedom.

No asking if you want a refill of iced water,

Dessert,
Hotness level,

Or the check.

While wealthy financial aristocrats pretend to know we know what we want,

We look across a room.

Eyes the colour of dark chocolate,

Mahogany,

Deeper than teakwood*,

Ready to travel back home in 10 days.

Thailand.

Comfort zone.

Native language.

Familiar sights and sounds.

Pinned-up hair in hot weather.

A life as if treading water,

Waiting for something to happen while waiting at a restaurant,

Here in the Deep South,

Home of commanded materiel,

Defended missiles,

Parked research,

Fielded cotton

and sprouted, sprawling suburban scenery.

While Hurricane Hype pounds the East Coast with tropical rain showers,

A wisp of pop music, “Come on, Irene,” whispering in quiet magnitudes,

An aftershock of culture shock,

Modernday earthquake of an equivalent, equalised, civilised tribe,

Osmotically, hypnotically, chaotically pounces on thoughts

Focused in stages of labeled words.

One step closer.

One step farther away.

Further.

Gathering.

Trekking.

Folded hands meditating.

Bowing.

More cannot be said without saying more.

“More.”

 

[*What is a native Thai tree? Don’t write a poem without access to the Internet, or an old set of encyclopedias.]