FIRST DAYS AT BARMACO STATION

Nothing to drink in this desert for days.

Black girls bring me rose-colored waters.

They wrap cool ribbons around my head.

The food is a bane, a pain, a poison.

I lie for hours curled on my bed.

I pack and unpack my box and my trunk.

The northbound train carries others away.

Evenings, I walk with the village daughters.

These natives mean nothing to me--their ways

Are strange and sober. I would be drunk!