Poetry
Faces
Kathmandu, Nepal
Faces on the street
like fields of brown flowers
blooming in the dusty light.
Where do they come from
& where do they go?
These faces that inhabit
this teeming bursting
city with its shrines
& potholes & stillness.
Some are waiting (for the bus,
for a customer),
Some are worshipping (circling
around a stupa,
burning incense),
Some are walking & talking
with friends
or zooming through pressed traffic
on motorbikes & run-down taxis,
Some are just sitting & watching
and trying to survive,
hands stretched toward lucky
wealthy passers-by.
Where will they be in the future?
In this same traffic-choked cityscape
hustling onto the burnt-out
bus to battle the roads
on the way to jobs
that pay 150 USD per month?
And the next year they’ll do the same
and the year after that
and they’ll marry & have kids
and pray & work to the bone
and dance & sing & celebrate,
and then they’ll die
and their children will take their place,
nowhere to go but here
as the population swells,
the streets more clogged
& clustered & the air
a soup of exhaust
as tourists snap photos
of ancient holy statues
& temples
and study Buddhism
& save money
and eat at swanky
outdoor restaurants
where they joke
& guffaw with pals
and talk of social justice
in Eastern traditions,
everyone with an American accent,
everyone entitled to everything
they have & want,
everyone going home, eventually
to their spacious three-story
home with green-grass yard,
flat-screen TV & high-speed
internet
after they learn about Dharma
and emptiness & suffering
& generosity.
