Streets of Jakarta
Gangs of boys snake between the stalled cars
hawking newspapers, magazines, gum, bottled water,
dried mangoes and bananas in small plastic bags,
cotton hand towels, rearing horses of dark lacquered wood
and maps that take you and them nowhere.
Beneath the fly-over, young men with powdered faces
white blouses tucked tight over padded chests and foam nipples,
shake tambourines and sing.
Doors locked, tinted windows shut,
you can see their mouths move.
Outside death and the millennium approaches.
In her bedroom it is 1925.
Her father stands at the doorway,
a clean white shirt, pants creased straight
as the country road across the Santa Ana Valley
and waves her up from her satin pillow.
Hand in his, she walks past all regrets,
between the rows of orange trees.
On a ladder hidden by the trees
a picker peels an orange.
There is nothing in the world
but her father's love
and the invisible fragrance of oranges.
--Jeffrey Hantover
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