John Grey
Bali, Dockside
Sea tongues lick the pier’s
creaking wood –
gray, split, holding.
Bright parrots lean into the wind.
On walls of open-air restaurants,
menus flap like flags.
The air is thick.
Lawa. Babi guling. Soy. Chili.
Incense for mouths.
A myna on a frangipani sways,
gossips with the gong.
Night is music –
gamelan music –
an unseen guitarist,
an invisible virtuoso
of the zither-like kacapi.
Old men, faces creased like figs,
line the benches of the shore,
watch the boats they once rode out on,
return to the bright lights of the shore.