Iguana Rock

Remembering...

Beautiful motel by iguana rock
and pomegranate grove;
but the word is
some honcho needs my room
and I am in his country.
Ushered out am I
by undisciplined brown-uniformed men;
some untidy militia.

Transported to an unknown interior
and left, a foreigner,
in a village of strangers:
Wild-staring, unshaven,
knife-rubbing, fly-baiting
men, and hungry women –
but not for love.

A concrete building my hotel,
with sacking beds and bugs for fun,
and a no purpose grin from
the toothless hotelero.
The first morning
after the first night – survived!

Better now with a plan – to leave.
Way out of the village appeared
at both ends. Taking either one of them,
I walked away from my
water melon diet.