Memories of Maroc

The pleasure in every single detail;
the layers of dirt on naked flesh,
itching beneath rags.
You taste a meal fit for a king-
dates and figs
from the sunny slopes
where the mountain Berber
offers you a brass cup
with spring water.
He asks for nothing in return,
only your good health.
You bathe in a lake
as the mountains hug your soul.
A woman from the village bakes bread
in the low stone oven
and serves it for you steamy and hot,
broken off in tasty textured morsels.
Poverty is just a word,
you feed on this simplicity forever
and the Minarets call to prayer,
as able men sweat in the desert sun and
small boys with slingshots
shoot down tiny sparrows.
They are amused by your disgust
as you refuse their offer of a dead bird.
And you sit by the road waiting for a ride-
taking it all in
without a care in the world