A Street Market In West Bombay

Your footprints litter dusty streets,
Paved only in cobblestone
And kept clean by the army of chickens
Pecking at the eternal sand.
Your footprints, Allen Ginsberg, your worn-out footprints have led me
To a street market in Bombay, past the sunflower growing golden
And the February grey of the Negro streets at dawn.
You walk slowly, Allen Ginsberg, shopping for poverty
In Bombay where the prices are cheap and the supplies are endless.
My Look at the brilliant Peacock, warranted and guaranteed.
Pick through the starving children, How ever will I choose?
No Neon Signs, No Trotsky-ites,
Just someone quitting India
Grey Flannel cooking curry,
Just two dollars and twenty-seven cents.
Snake Charmers, Allen Ginsberg, as your mind glides across the alleyways,
The Tin-Can huts and Brown Rice Pots,
And sails north to Tibet
Where the Dali-Llama waits,
And the air smells like mountain goat
And prayers will tickle your soft-white beard
As you climb and begin to see the world
As nothing more than shapes and colors.