The Sun Kings
A lone Nile felucca threads a path through a sorrel haze.
Morning tea outside the Winter Palace.
A Turkish cigarette mulling my wine.
The waiter is Nubian. He whistles a Cairo melody
as he sweeps the steps.
Luxor,
always one step from the desert.
Sand creeps over boulevards in serpentine waves.
Temples and hotels caught by an embalming dust; cinders
that must be swept daily under wilting shadows.
Soon Ra will walk out of the dawn.
I will barter with his face, haggle for a seared moment
of permanence.
For now, by the river, I sip tea, watch the light kindle
a far necropolis – a valley where kings gouged blood-lines
into the tombs for the sun.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2021
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