The Sands of Profit
Near desert road I string the hours away.
These funeral beads recovered from the sand
form simple bits of art, and tourists pay.
Mementos of another cultureīs day
fall into my now-desiccating hand.
Quiet I sit, and string the hours away.
Serpentine, spondylus and bone and clay,
each necklace varies, for it is unplanned.
For wares tinged with mystique, the tourists pay.
Life-wheels ago - how long I couldnīt say -
two little girls were buried with a man.
Their yellowed teeth help string my hours away.
Ironic that such trivia should stay
when dreams and faces crumble in the sand;
Iīm not complaining, as the tourists pay.
Content with archaeological array,
I turn out necklaces because I can.
Near desert road I string the hours away -
such humble fare, yet always the tourists pay.
If you have any comments on this poem, Lark Beltran would be
pleased to hear from you.