Kabul

I roll awake
in the half moon-shaped ditch.
"Where the hell are my Kools,
my Canadian Mist,
the ice for Godsakes,
yes, even my Blackberry?"

The dying light
lets me see
that he is still there, too,
with his filthy face,
his blood stained shirt,
the small, reptilian eyes.

He curls his gnarled brown
fingers, beckoning.
I push myself up to sit,
then stop, holding my
breath. His lips tighten
around yellowed teeth

while he pushes a swollen
rat toward me with his
bare foot, saying, "This is
the answer to your questions."