as I fight weekend traffic
through a downtown filled with hipsters
in clever graphic t-shirts
pulled along by their leashed rescue dogs
I consider giving up the Farmer's Market
remember instead a summer in Tangier
spent lounging on the patio at Cafe Hafa
with its view of the port and sailboats in the Straits
the cramped tables of old men playing bartok
and smelling of an unfamiliar spice
the joy of wandering the souks of the medina
bright spools of silk and hand-pulled rugs
berbers sitting on their tarps outside the Bab Fass
selling figs, squash, peas and pumice stones
everywhere the noise of negotiation
the image of Burroughs in room nine of the hotel El Muniria
writing Naked Lunch between binges of alcohol and kief
looking out his window past the ancient Phoenician tombs
to those steep shadowed side streets filled with sex and death
with pickpockets and old peddlers offering salted almonds
and an occasional view of the sea
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