ManicDDaily

On the Way to the Airport (In Kerala, India)

Our driver says, “so your problem, home, all finished?”
as we look out at palms
on water, women in burqua
on sidesaddle, motos and
rickshaws, and after one slow roundabout, a grand filigreed
church, Catholic, its forefront embroidered
with maroon and gold umbrellas shading
the spillover, and “oh,” I say, “you mean in
Boston?” And “Finished, yes?” he repeats,
and I try, “Yes, I guess. I mean, they caught
the guy,” not knowing what else to say, his face
beaming with the pride
of arcane sympathy, and we hear the music now, as we drive,
emanating from this side of the church, music that chirrups
like a Bollywood dance number, and my daughter mutters
something about the aim of amplification here (to reach as
far as it will go, no matter)
and also something about
Miranda rights, and I feel the harsh prickle on the skin
that I’ve lived in for so long, the skin made smooth
and supple (so it thinks) by civil rights, but also flash the headlines
of amputations and that lost child’s gap-toothed smile, but mainly my mind
circumnavigates its wish for something, whatever it is,
to be done right, the music still reverberating
over our overpass, and over people on the street below too
people buying, you know, betel nut
on the corner, and grams of fried
snacks, cellophane gleaming its pink mirrors
over the golden morsels, stacks of light,
shadow, refrain, a flak of debris
at the sides.

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Here’s my first attempt at a poem in a while. I am not sure what it means. I am back in the U.S. now. Thanks so very much to everyone for your kind comments during my trip to India. I really appreciate your support.

The photo above doesn’t really go with the poem, but was a bit tired to get another one.