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
I have decided to try a new genre called Travel Poetry – I hope you like it.
Small squads of tourists heading to the palace in Kadriorg Park, each with a different photo to take,
It is a mini-Versailles according to the locals.
The President’s pink house is there for all to see
chatterers on seats,
beautiful blondes dressed in black without a hair out of place even in the breeze, sitting at cafes drinking lattes and being seen.
Trams dropping off tourists who ask is this the right place?
bright, bright sunlight illuminating the other half of my bench.
People asking is he writing about us?
Fountains playing that same endless game,
gardens reflecting in ponds, and
parents pushing strollers
This is Kadriorg Park.
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