In his soft-spoken, conspiratorial voice
he told me his name,
but it flew in one ear
and out the other
and I failed to ask again.
To this day he is: my Iranian gentleman.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
His jackets were a blend of wool
and cigarette smoke.
Occasionally, he gave me a hint
of yesterday\u2019s cocktail.
He was a determined reader of books
in English and Farsi\u2014
books about Kissinger, the Shah,
Mohammed Mosaddeq, Iraq,
and, of course, Iran,
the headwaters of every sadness.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Saucer eyes flickered
behind tortoise-shell glasses.
Whip-thin, he looked taller than he was.
With a full head of hair
not yet entirely gray,
he was once a handsome man.
Once he was a man of importance,
a corporate lawyer in Tehran
until the students drove him out.
Now he works at the EPA.
I could not get him started
on the law or the environment.
His only public passion: Iran
and what America should do about Iran.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Three daughters in Qom,
an ex-wife somewhere,
a lost career\u2014
the man was lonely
and wanted to go home.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I ride a different bus now.
I did not expect to miss him,
but I do.
\u2003
So much fruit beneath the husk
of political grievances
was never shared\u2014
his daughters,
his youth at university,
Persian history and culture,
adjusting to American life.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Strangers on the bus
are best kept that way.
I do not like to show my cards.
But this option for a healing friendship
slipped away to my regret. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
NOTE: I wrote this in 2004 when I was working in Bethesda, MD.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Bus Poem: My Iranian Gentleman In his soft-spoken, conspiratorial voicehe told me his name,but it flew in one earand out the otherand I failed to ask again.To this day he is: my Iranian gentleman. His jackets were a blend of … Continue reading