Travel poem number 2 about Istanbul.
I depart the shiny new tram
taste sage tea hundreds of years in the making
consumed near a Muslim graveyard,
where I espied silhouettes of crescent moons, stars
under pitch black skies.
As I dodge mutant dancing zebras,
vehicles screech to halt at the light.
Garish clothes, piled on the pavement, are sorted
by six grey men, women
the smiling trader haggles with all.
My linen shirt feels clammy, I sniff fresh orange juice.
Men rock on wooden chairs, debate
unending traffic above on the concrete flyover.
Scrawny cats wail, hiss over a discarded kebab
A welcoming dolmus awaits travellers to distant destinations.