Staring into the hissing of a cobra,
Surprisingly slithers in and out of an Indian, whose eyes are blue of blindness.
White gloved finger stroke the snake’s back,
Will you be dining on cobra?
I think not, old Indian smiles toothlessly, bringing the cobra closer.
I bump into a little statue, who is all face bent on terror.
The ground,
The destroyer,
My unofficial patron saint reached an impossible age,
I state emphatically to anyone.
Listen; take me to London past the cobra,
Into the throng crowding.
Mother waves his monkey.
Unbearably hot beneath cotton, crinolines sweat streaks down.
Little winged beats escape; I swear I hear it mocking me.
My reaching epidemic proportions clouds are thick and dark.
Warning, this monsoon season floods of rain fall from the sky in matter of minutes.
Dusty bazaar chatter and squawk, lifting brightly colored toward us with brown, coppery vases, wooden boxes, flower designs, and mangoes.