Bangkok

Bangkok smells of
chilies, grilled meat
and rotting garbage -
a blend that would repel me
in another place
here – at first –
wafts exotic.

Outside the window
night falls fast -
14 degrees from the Equator
leaves no time for sunset.
Summer monsoon –
not raindrops but
fists of water beating
metal-roof drums.
Palm fronds and bamboo clap
together.
Better than any 20-hour plane ride,
the storm tells the story -
This is not home.

Breakfast of stir fry and rice -
even morning sun cannot
evaporate the bubble
of dislocation.

And then –
across the courtyard,
the sound of
A – a, B – b, C – c.

This call and response
of the school-day deflates
First-World clichés
of foreign lands,
smug self-importance.
This is no daring exploration
after all.
Like any other,
Bangkok is a city of
families eating breakfast,
workers earning a living,
children learning to read.