Third World
(After a photo in National Geographic.)
by
Michael Battram
You
start to fumble for your wallet, but
Your driver stops you, gestures, no. He spits
Into
the settling dust and yawns, ignores
The wailing curses of the shepherd boy,
The
small brown goat sent sprawled and bloody in
The road. You lean against a rusted fender
And
the weight of centuries, await
The village elders’ stately, slow debate.
©
2006 by Michael Battram
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