Abu Dhabi

Fixing two Vodka sodas while the call for prayer beats out through a
loudspeaker nearby. Pulling back the tab of the Canada Dry soda can,
with its Arabic inscription, the singer pushes through the
traffic up into the sandy air and through our eighth story
windows.
Outside the sun is working on setting.
The sun here is not the giant orb in the sky but an
everything-everywhere and it sets the same way; not propping itself on
top of buildings and then shifting to hide behind another before
sneaking behind a small villa to set properly, instead the early light
dims to the late and then just slowly dims. There's no movement but in
the heat and breadth of light. It's as if the sun is the shadow for
all this light, or at least its stalking ghost.

I've heard the call for prayer squawk through mosque shaped alarm
clocks and I've heard it in the oh-so cleverly timed live-feed CNN reports, but
standing beneath these speakers in these streets and watching the
shoes pile up on the steps ownerless two-by-two is unfiltered.
But I don't feel like praying right now. However, what I am walking
with is enough to shake a prayer from a king.
My legs are hollowed from a stupid indulgence of whiskey and are weak
from fucking. They feel like worn cowboy boots, the leather ready to
fold, just deciding which way.
So Prayer...not right now. But I do hear your church bells and they almost
remind me of mine.

cg