Beirut

The bright desert sun shines down on the tram,

overlooking clay biniya that sit between-

grassy mountains and the sea, cradled like a new-born.

The Mediterranean crashes

against large, rounded boulders like the stomachs of customers

bloated with shawarma and cous cous.

Cars speed through red lights

cruising around al-humra- 

biniya,

malls, jewelry and clothing stores
 of impenetrable glass.

The other buildings hide in bombed-out clay

and broken stone like the Wailing Wall.

A twelve-year-old janitor

mops up endless sand from the marble floor-

as I grab my hose and puff on arguilay,

wrapping my mouth around smoke rings-

just to prove I can.