Disarming
Little persons
Mohammed and Ishmael,

Brothers,
Encrusted bare feet,
Ears full of unharvested potatoes,
They wear the ghosts of hand-me-downs.
Their heads are full of nits.
They scratch incessantly.

Mohammed and Ishmael are old,
Hardened. Steel in their eyes,
But are really four and five.
They hop up and down
On one foot,
Fidget.

Little persons,
Hungry children,
I give them crackers,
Sticks of chewing gum.
We knit together
A tattered piece of conversation,
One word here,
One word there,
In four languages.

I buy their
cheap brass mirror.
It is a diamond in the dust.
I hug them.
Satisfied, they wave goodbye to me.
I take a long, last look,
A picture of a memory.

Looking into the mirror,
It is Mohammed and Ishmael
I believe that I should see.
Instead, there is my own face in the glass.

Touching the glass,
Somehow, I am connected
To those little persons,
But of course, it is not the same
As talking
To Mohammed and Ishamel,
A tattered piece of conversation
On the edge of the medina.