angkor wat

I saw the black-winged butterfly

gently sip the rain that dripped

from the weathered sandstone eye

of the smiling long dead king.

Eight hundred years had passed

before the jungle was stripped

from the ruins at last

and the feast was set

for three million cell phones

to eat and tweet,

add our own sweet faces

to the remnants of rotting empire.

A reminder of the transience

of glory, the power of storms

and vines to erode our monuments

become a home for sky blue lizards

and urchins who plead in many tongues:

mr handsome man, buy my postcards.

ten for a dollar, mr handsome man.

buy my postcards, see?