International

I awoke in Bangkok,
swathed in Swedish duvet,

aroused by the scent
of happy hibiscus from Korean vases,

to chatter,
drifting in with the wind
from Englishmen next door,

swearing in German
at hangovers consigned by Russian vodka.

Hunger, gnawing at preferences,
French croissants, with classic Seville orange marmalade.

Imperial Maybelline,
pit-a-pat on Persian rugs –
note to self: hug is the Arabic synonym for appetizer.

Brewing. The coffee is Brazilian,
I bought it myself
in an African store last night, the only one of it’s kind
in downtown Tokyo, owned by a black, who isn’t:

Singaporean offspring
of a Congolese princess,
eyes that made me quiver
and reminisce on sunrise at the edge of Norwegian fjords,

as I drifted by,
under a popy plucked in the Venice of the East’,
dragging Travelpro, two hours before check-in,
ample time to discover the world. Jump-seats can wait.

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