An Eight Hour Tour, An Eight Hour Tour
Shawn Sorensen


On the nameless road from Nairobi
          to the coast, Mombasa,
                    vultures glisten in unnamed trees,
                              sun rays nudge them to feast on the ground.
                                        I’m Skipper trying to fake fearlessness,
                                                  my Little Buddy next to me
                                                            amused to be married
                                                                      on her fourth African foray.
                                                            The bus avoids potholes while
                                                  off a ways, a hill on the highway
                                       poses, Would we call it
                                            a rich man's "tea leaf bluff"
                                                  or a commoner's" acacia plateau?"
                                                           The passing market full of people
                                                                     to whom I’ve not received names.
                                                                            A woman sells oranges,
                                                                                         her blue shawl flapping like a flag, or a man
                                                                                                         shouting something I can’t make out.
                                                                                         They could be Paul, Rose or Moses,
                                                                                     selling red potatoes, kikoy shawls, Fanta.
                                                                              Little Buddy says they smile often
                                                                    and run from the slightest altercation.
                                                          "DANGER – PETROL FOR EXPORT"
                                                                     on back of a behemothed tanker truck.
                                                                               We cannot get around,
                                                                                         I cannot concentrate,
                                                                                                  wanting respite from
                                                                                                         the next bend in the road.
                                                                                                  We slow again,
                                                                                        this time for a monkey
                                                                              finishing a road crossing.
                                                                    He sends us a loud scream,
                                                and I'm left to wonder whether
                                           I should relax
                                      or worry even more.
                                Prattle of cattle
                                           jammed into the back of a lorry,
                                                      The  conductor
                                                                 struggles to fill our bus
                                                                               with paying passengers,
                                                                                              shouting through the open door
                                                                                                   at moving scenery
                                                                                                                   containing no signs to tell us
                                                                                                                                     where we might be.
                                                                                                                                        We will arive - eventally - past
                                                                                                                             these panoramically parched plains,
                                                                                                                       Heat invades the bus like water
                                                                                                             in the lungs of an uninitiated swimmer.
                                                                                                       My wife naps, grinning like Gilligan.