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Poem

I felt a bit like Humbert, or John Proctor, 
an ageing vulture drawn to fresh young flesh. 
She was a pretty, witty Turkish doctor 
(so, not exactly plundering the creche!) 

She seemed to like me, though we'd never met. 
"Why don't you come to Turkey?" she'd implore. 
(You've guessed by now I met her on the Net!) 
My mind was moving that way, more and more. 

Some hanker for one evening with Stan Getz, 
Cafe A-Gogo, in the wee small hours. 
My fantasy was always minarets 
in Istanbul, those slender marble towers 

(which seem too graceful for this ugly world) 
and me, enthralled by shape and song and air, 
as muezzin's warble hovered, wavered, curled, 
calling the faithful to their morning prayer. 

One Easter, I had four days with no work. 
For once, the bank account was almost full. 
"I'll go see Aysin," (thus was named my Turk), 
"since Ankara must be close to Istanbul." 

One word about the people of that land. 
They're nosey. Answer questions, they'll ask more. 
They meet an Arab, they can sell him sand. 
They're merchants. Sent to Hell, they'd open a store. 

Turks want to know two things: the area, 
in meters squared, encompassed by your flat, 
and please confirm that Greeks are hairier 
and darker-skinned than them ("Greek girls are fat?") 

Met at the airport by a courtesy car, 
I'm gliding through the magic Eastern night, 
fielding the driver's questions - "Is it far 
from Maine to Malibu? Do I look white?"

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