Looking for Luck in Bangkok
Often at markets I see
people standing in line
to walk under an elephant.
They count out a few coins,
then crouch to slip beneath
the wrinkly unbrella that smells
of dust and old age
and a thousand miracles.
They unfold on the other side
blessed with long life,
good luck, solace from grief,
unruly children, and certain
liver complaints.
Conspicuous Caucasian,
I stoop to take my turn.
The feet of my elephant are stout
as planted pines.
His trunk completes
this honest structure,
this tractable, tusked,
and deeply creased
endangered shelter.
I squat in his aromatic shade
reminded of stale bedclothes,
my mother's pantry shelves
of cloves and vinegar,
as if there were no world of drought,
no parasites, no ivory poachers,
My good luck running in
as his runs out.
(c) Maxine Kumin. All rights reserved.
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