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[In Algiers I held a glass

that held a face's stare

In the glass

the face that stared

stared back at me in fear.]

 

We came upon slowing traffic.

 

Inside the war-torn bus

standing passengers were gently rocked

We drove along an unfinished road.

unfinished roads, were you

become convinced

that each rock and pothole

were placed carefully in order

to discomfit passengers,

to remind them of their poverty

or the slumming middle-class

of the acre sized swimming pool that awaits.

 

We passed the sun-glassed occupants

of cars and busses

and the rolled-up sleeves of lorry drivers.

Tanned arms hung out of windows;

fingers tapping an unheard beat.

 

I stooped to stare at the dancing distance

of heat waves rising from

the baked highway.

 

Asphalt arteries.

 

People gripped passports,

Identity papers, rosary- beads

- Letters of transit -

but were not needed;

the border did what most borders do-

it shrugged us through.

 

Smiles become all languages.

 

Later, I sat staring out the window of a bar.

Hardly blinking.

A bus stopped and people got off.

A dog scratched.

The sky was blue and cloudless.

I lifted a cold drink.

Watching.

Then Jez turned to me and asked:

"Is this what it's like to be drunk?"

I smiled as I slid my wine towards her...

 

words and foto T Carroll

Re-draft no 6

 

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