The Interpretor Poem by Eric Gibson

I watched him and his
Notebook and
His skinny legs
Crossed at the knees.
It's fascinating,
The shyness of the Afghans.

Mongaul is an interpreter
For the American forces.
He parts his thick,
Dark hair and smiles and nods.
I've spent hours explaining
The meanings of words to him.

We've slouched and spoke with our hands
While dusty men with hammers and
Squinted eyes
Rake their forearms across their faces.
I'm sure they say it's hot,
In their own Dari way.

He approaches me,
Clutching his notepad
Like a newborn child.
'Good Morning, Eric! '
A strange smirk appears on my face.

A firm handshake appears between us.

He doesn't care if I'm an evil man.
He just likes the idea of
Talking in English.

I silently wish my purposes
Were as honest and sweet.