He was lying on the pavement,
his shroud an empty brown sack of potatoes
thrown haphazardly over him
attempting to shield passers-by from seeing
the blood that was building around his head.
He, a summer vacationer maybe,
from aswan or luxor, from the fields
or a man in a turban selling peanuts by the seaside.
I don’t know.

I in a taxi on the highway
seeing a few ruffled men directing traffic, no police officers
or ambulances
and there it was, the sudden disgust at everyone
who was glancing over to see what the commotion was–
those who may have felt a little sick momentarily
then gone on to continue errands, shopping,
walking on the beach.

I am a mix of anger and a nauseating fear
of being caught in a car’s headlights, being torn
from my body in an unfamiliar city, lying in the middle of the road
while passing taxi drivers shake their heads and comment on the unsafe
street-crossing habits of pedestrians, dirty politics of the country
and dry weather.