Travel poem number 2 about Istanbul.
Returning from drinking a sage tea in a cafe near some tombs I get off the tram;
the cars screech to a halt at the red light as I dodge by the man selling dancing mutant zebras.
People are buying clothes from a pile on the pavement as a salesman calls out the prices.
The humidity is high.
A stallholder presses fresh orange juice and the restaurant is still open;
men are sitting on wooden chairs on the pavement chatting as the traffic zooms by on the flyover.
Cats miaow and hiss over a discarded kebap and a dolmus is waiting to travel to a distant suburb.
The tour operator still wants me to go to Georgia tomorrow.
It is nearly midnight in Aksaray in Istanbul