On
a day once near Al Ain,
so
hot Satan sought shade,
no
dune, no shelter in sight,
I
saw a man pissing in the sand.
His
damp and limp dishdasha
Looking
grungy and likely smelling
sour
from the day's sweat
was
hiked up tanned shanks.
He
stood spread eagle to prevent
piss
from splashing his sandals.
A
hand on one hip, another pointed
his
water to puddle into a sand stain.
Speeding
by in our cool blue car,
we
cruised along the hot tarmac.
Our
driver pushed the pedal to
tuck
us in safely before nightfall.
Through
my rearview mirror, where objects
may
be closer than they appear, I stole a
backward
glance at the man pissing in the
sand.
Fading fast, I spied him, hauling
himself
up on a kneeling camel. Undulating
awkwardly,
they loped away toward
a
distant dune. As in a memory flash,
near
Al Ain, the two faded into mirage.
Neither
the hot sand nor the nomad's
stance
seemed droll or bizarre to us
in
the cool car. Not mere curiosity, nature's
urgent
call bound him to us magically.
(Near
Abu Dhabi, United Arab Emirates, 2004)