Kathmandu Poem by Jim Veney

The city is a maze,
Streets choked with buses, three wheel taxis, bicycles, cattle,
A huge, maculate, mixing bowl.
Dust and exhaust fumes are clouds that blind the eyes,
Numb the senses.
A dead dog in a gutter
Is a noxious dam for dirty brown water.
A scrawny calf stands on a garbage pile,
Vying with the crows for something it can eat.
High red brick walls, topped with shards of glass,
Separate narrow, broken, streets from houses,
As Western personal space separates each of us.
But there is no personal space.
Small men carry the commerce of the city on their backs,
Trotting along like so many beasts of burden,
Temples large and small are the compass points for daily life.
They exude marigolds and roses,
Already losing their shape like deflating balloons.
A five star hotel stands gleaming beside a cardboard slum,
As if an Afghan deigned to consort with a pi dog.
And yet, the city is a jewel,
A living museum where the ancient and modern
Comfortably coexist.
And above the city, hills are dwarfed by marble mountains.
They are pristine in their whiteness.
And on the highest are bodies frozen,
Scattered like raisins on a frosted cake.