Poem #134 of 365

Were you an engineer in your home country,
land of your birth,
or a physician or lawyer,
an architect maybe?

You deftly swivel your palms
this way and that,
beneath my hood
in the middle of morn.

I hear you in Arabic when
you trade clues with Abdul,
assessing my problems
and determined to solve.

I think you said Nigeria,
but definitely Africa, though
I could be wrong, I try not
to stare at your stunning black face.

Washed up and dressed for
dinner at eight, would you
wave away wine
and the pork and my gall?

Would you open up your vast
past life to me til the waiter
says go, or would you bore
me with talk of the trade?

(with respect for my mechanic's assistant, who shall go unnamed)

copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez