Travel Poem #3

Never walk on the beach barefoot:
there are puffer fish, stone fish, glass.
Water is, of course, always unsafe,
but make sure you have a rubber stopper
for the sink and the bathtub when the shooting starts.
The boats are crowded and do not leave on time.
Greeks vomit on your seat; Japanese
cry in the aisles like they have lost
Buddha's own protection.

Don't worry about clean underwear;
in an emergency, you'll have other concerns.
Besides, it's best to pack light.

Riding on top of a bus, heading up and north,
threshing grain farmers have laid in the roadbed,
you are perfectly, entirely happy.

Never stay in a hotel room that costs more
than the local per capita income;
small bottles of shampoo, conditioner, last for months
at home. At home, hotel towels are ineffective for drying,
and they carry the scent of a place you've left too soon.

Nepali incense. Gobi dust. The smell
bamboo gives off when slow breezes rub stalks together.

No fires are accidental. Plan an escape route.
Try to stay near the stairway at all times.