The Sun Kings

A lone Nile felucca threads a path through a sorrel haze. Morning tea outside the Winter Palace. A Turkish cigarette mulling my wine. The waiter is Nubian. He whistles a Cairo melody as he sweeps the steps. Luxor, always one step from the desert. Sand creeps over boulevards in serpentine waves. Temples and hotels caught by an embalming dust; cinders that must be swept daily under wilting shadows. Soon Ra will walk out of the dawn. I will barter with his face, haggle for a seared moment of permanence. For now, by the river, I sip tea, watch the light kindle a far necropolis – a valley where kings gouged blood-lines into the tombs for the sun.