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prakorb.

brush past the henna-handed

dreadlock-tourist-filled

formica topped tables

 

& turn at the dead end

is Shangri-La

 

another world

they sit dirty feet away

yet never know my realm

of jasmine flowers

and lush green plants

that know no names

 

never see the shrine of 

concrete and candle wax

the glass of water, fruit

a garland of marigolds

for Him

 

this is no cafe on a dusty Siam street

this is heaven