The Cost of Admission
For a moment, you hear eastern music,
shades of Istanbul, images of minarets,
the iman calling over the city in his strange jazz-like wail.
You smell incense.
You hear bells and the wafting of veils.
The light changes. There is a golden hue to it.
And then you blink, and all you see
is a row of broken windows, piled up against a table. ,
exotica in the local market.
It is a moment. No more.
A transformation, worth more
than the cost of admission.
About this poem
In my own life, I am something of a minimalist by nature. But when I travel, things fascinate me. And at times transport me.
The picture was taken at the Washington County Antique Fair, a twice a year event near me that I love to visit.