It is night. I walk past the mosque
but lights from nearby shops and
cars rushing by make it seem more
like twilight. In the corner I see
an old man hunched over,
a canvas bag slung around
his frail shoulders. He walks
aimlessly in small circles which
become closer and closer together
until he’s almost motionless.
Careening closer, honking cars
shout a wedding procession
is passing, the new beginning
contrasting with the old man,
the decaying mosque wall.
An elderly lady sitting on
a frayed prayer rug, covered legs
sticking out, leans against
the marble mosque stairs,
eyes looking downward.
I think about the hope screaming
from passing cars, wondering
if the new couple will devolve
into the decrepit, derelict heap
now staring at me.
The walls of the ancient mosque,
once carved in beautiful geometric
patterns, are now covered with ripped
posters from some past election
and faded, indecipherable graffiti.
I slip a few pounds into the wrinkled,
outstretched hand and wonder why
that old woman sits alone and
why I am not sitting beside her.