I watch the fat man with the giant camera
Protruding from his chest like a wishful erection.
His wife and son trail behind,
The former apparently soaking in some essence
Of the spirit of this place;
The latter blankly following, an oblique fuzz
Emanating from the puberty of his top lip.
Will he ever look at these photos again,
Does he sense a shame
In the thick ornamentations made of Indian gold?
A sense of God in the marble floors?
The oneness of perspective among the orange trees in the courtyard?
Or is he just passing through, hovering
Not really here to assimilate
Just to look, snap and work up an appetite
Before moaning about the heat as he sits down to lunch.
Michael Thorne © 2009