The rain falls

Inside beauty parlor walls, pistachio green.

Large mirrors reflect three women preening

Talking in hushed whispers, chuckling over a joke.

Curling their sleek black hair in pastel rollers

Like my mother did when I was a girl.

 

But the young girl her hair is faded,

bubblegum pink

Her face smooth.

Her dark eyes watch the narrow street

The Farongs with their rented motorbikes go by

A man with tired shoulders pushes a cart of fried fish

A mango falls off a passing truck bed.

While I continue to sit here,

within pistachio green walls.

 

A small baby sleeps soundly on the massage table.

While the television screen flickers images,

of women in bright tight clothing

Thick ghostly white makeup. Fuchsia pink lips

Dancing before a golden Buddha wrapped in colored ribbons.

A laughing old woman appears

The actors feign being scared.

Then they laugh too.

 

The rain is slower now.

Overcast, the sky more brown then gray

As if the mountains are closing in,

The fog choosing to stay.

 

I’m too lost in this afternoon reverie.

I’ve gone too quiet. Unaccustomed to more,

then my own breathing.

Thinking slow and thinking fast

Only wandering down city streets

Gazing at the murky moat waters that cast no reflections of the palm fronds above.

 

Walking back now,

narrowly missing the puddles.

A tall man with sunglasses reads the paper at the French café

A scrawny orange cat darts under a table.

The hotelkeeper smiles when I pass the desk,

Sa-wat-dee kaa.

 

I lie on my bed listening to Latin and reggae

The fan moves stagnant air around

around and around and around.

It’s circular these patterns I make.

The night turns the hue of a ripened plum.

Chinese lanterns cast dim shadows over the pool water.

And the orange cat reappears,

I wonder if there is anything left of tonight.