Underground

Here in this port city

where the petrochemical plant

leaks fluorocarbons into the air,

blistering the salmon sky, he speaks

French with the minister of trade

in the Tomb of the Last Sultan.

He can't concentrate in any language.

He hears calypso music bubbling up

from a steel drum player on a subway platform

in Manhattan while regretting

a casual kiss that lingered too long

in a tunnel near Kowloon Harbor, Hong Kong.

His brain is a jumble of local customs,

odd costumes, & money under the table

in villages where the free market explodes

into carnival light; yet wherever he goes,

the same beggar with the missing fingers

accosts him under every bridge.

Tomorrow, he'll do business in a country

where the currency is worthless,

a scorched terrain where the principal exports

are copper, nickel, & zinc,

another continent where everything

of value resides underground.