Bill

Bill

Petit Socco, Tangier.



I went from a worn corner
table at a cafe on the small

square in Tangier to a hovel of a
hotel
shown me by a friendly

old
man

I went from the table where I
sat with a native of the
sloped city

sipping mint tea, smoking a stick
of greenery watching old

men hunched with bunches of
spinach falling like rabbit ears
from their cloth bags

We watched the small square
and its crossings (quick steps
on the kerb stones)

The tea was sweet and thick
with a cosmos of green leaves

peppery, hot from the
tannins shot through
with the cells of sugar

he had dancing in the mixture

We crossed to the hovel where the
man with the smile
and the grass asked

me did I want to see Bill's room?

The cell was plain, bare
but much changed (though he
swore it wasn't)

with a small bed and
little
else
in there.