WHAT PILL HAVE
I SWALLOWED?
The Turk in his tobacco shed is reading the
New York paper, about a train wreck and the
weather upstate. He never mentions the theater,
just this other matter, always. A small man, in a
small world, lays eggs. In his small, silver container
he sells streetside snuff and smoke-tobaccos. All
this land has waited for him. Behind his head, some
radio is playing; a Turkish voice drones back. No
one - or few - understand the noise, but just
accept. I guess this many smokers still exist :
enough to cause a line, enough to form,
of sorts, a crowd. I feel like Alice, in
her wonderland of swallowed things,
passing by a strange and foreign
scene; the hookah-smoking
caterpiller, and his
smoking rings.
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