A Side Trip to Timbuktu

For Terre Orlando, Teacher
Maine Correctional Center

Series Terra Firma:
“The Missionary”

We travel to somewhere
on the otherside of left field
where children play at being grown-up
and grown-ups pay for being children
      a backwater backwash
      a place forgotten and never found

Among the mud huts of concrete and steel bars
trimmed with ill-tended gardens of blue
is a missionary long-forgotten by her sponsor
assuming there ever was one
She is soft curves and softer eyes
played against a backyard of heathens
starving children who echo hunger in empty stares
orphans whose dying eyes well pools
tender sobs stolen in the night

The place holds promise
but is not the Promised Land

“Old Woman in the Road”

On the road to Timbuktu
there is woman whose face I have seen before
I do not know her

She carries a great bundle of sticks
that she says will be made into toys for her children
Her children she says
in a voice that thickens the blood
she pauses and looks me in the eye

I am sure I see what is every woman's face
Like losing at the glass bead game
and stopping to wash my face in a stream
looking at my own reflection
to see the pain of gambling
and losing

The lines carved in her face
tell of countless hours
hovering over the waking dreams of her children
they are gentle lines from children's lullabies
sung softly to the one who rocks
in her lap

      “I have a train to catch
      and it's leaving soon”

it is a lie but I mean what I say
She says it is sad
that I do not have time
to visit her children

We part at the fork
and I watch her for a bit
carrying that great bundle of sticks
and the bundle is greater
than I first noticed
as if her children were growing in number
and one stick is added
for each child who needs one

I know I shall not see her again
but will look for her
in every woman's face

“The Flower Girl”

She sells flowers from a basket
that she clings to her breast
as if she were selling parts of herself
in the train station that rambles
on the wasted outskirts of Timbuktu
Her face innocent hints at wisdom
earned through seeing
things beyond her control
it is the blank stare of helpless children
orphans of lost dreams

      “Excuse me sir
      a flower to brighten your day”

I ask how much
she says she would be happy
with whatever I choose to offer       
they are just flowers
and are not fancy things
I grab some bills and shove them in her hand
I expect her to say something
she doesn't
she tucks the bills into her blouse
and cradles the basket
to her breast
as the train pulls from the station

All is brown and dust
broken only by the bright colors
in her basket
and the white smile in her eyes
I forget to take some flowers
and I regret that
there is a fragrance there
that would have teased me
in old age