La Charite Sur Loire Poem by David McLansky

It was hot and the sterile streets were dusty;
The sun burned white in the barren square;
Hot water from a water pipe was rusty;
The bar man shrugged as if he didn't care;
Dark women wearing shawls appeared and scurried;
There were no childrens' voices in the street;
Old men shuffled as they tried to hurry;
The white washed walls reflecting Summer's heat;
I sat among the empty cafe tables;
A foreigner not part of village life,
The table rocked on iron legs unstable,
I without a family or a wife.
I decided then and there that I'd go home,
And then remembered that I lived alone.