White houses, blue windows,
Wooden doors studded
With wrought metal
Chestnut or asphalt black
Entwining grills,
Laden with bougainvillea
Shocking pink.
Winding paths, shiny cobbles
Rounded and smooth
Leading to caverns
Of hand-crafted treasures
Fashioned by sand and wind
Into mounds of ochre
Topping magical lamps
Pearl-green skillets
Displayed against
Limestone white, tiles blue.
Wide-eyed, naïve tourist in antiques shop
Inadvertently unscrews
Creamy top of azure bottle.
Scent transports him to land of houris.
Man converses in verse with them
Via telepathy day and night
Lost in emerald, amethyst eyes,
Gets confused, can’t decide
Which houri is more beautiful.
Folks can’t understand why he quits
Job, smoking, drinking, cuts sugars.
Smiles foolishly at immortal, ethereal faeries;
Talks in sign language with invisible fey-folk.
Lolls about on streets, survives on scraps,
Lies around on sloping benches painted
Turquoise, set against walls, pristine white.
