Hiding down dingy, foul-smelling streets,
Gently nestled in cloth to keep the bugs out,
Or resting inside silk-lined baskets, used for laundry the day before,
Or simply sitting out on tattered blankets, growing mushy in the sun.
Reaching out, I take one in my hands, searching for
in its dark purple skin.
Satisfied with my selection, I make my way from the crowded
And head to a more solitary place.
I flick open its green flower-like stem.
A cloudy residue leaks over my fingers.
I sweep it off on my already dirty pants.
A slight breeze lifts a sweet scent
That mingles with the dirty smell of the streets.
Breaking off a piece, I touch the slug-like meat to my dry lips--
Stopping mid-bite as a small boy skips along,
Staring at me.
I close my mouth round the fruit.
Every taste bud rises like a goose bump
as cold juices slide down my throat.
Like an orange the fruit is split into sections.
I swallow each piece slowly,
And I am in the moment.
And, in that sweet moment, far from home,
My mind unwraps the beauty behind