A Thingyam Collect

The roofs of Mandalay are silver from the sky,
Blue on the ground,
And what looks from above like rivers
Are the curves where people's lives
Are dropped like feathers on the unforgiving earth,
To catch rides on cattle trucks and motorbikes side saddle
Under bean locust boulevards
Where buddhas dance in stone around the traffic circles,
It's easier when the Buddha has all the gold,
Everyone is saved,
And the monks are sent out in the dusty streets
In linen robes
To hitch their own rides,
Collect rice, carry parasols,
Smoke cigarettes, read newspapers,
Talk on cell phones
Amid the hack and honk,
The top of the head bartering
That goes on even here
Where they sand down Gautama's head
Along Buddha factory row.
The monks carry items in their baskets,
Colorful plastic covered in shrink wrap,
Their own kind of trade.
And further out, in the magic mist of Lake Inle,
Whole families live and trade under the teak bridge
Next to boats untouched by time's implementations
That rest in purple lily fields
Pulsing beneath the duck beaks that nuzzle the mud.
Stray lilies float into the larger veil of water
That tractors and ducks cross farther up together.
Burma lives too, rusted behind razor wire
And on ancient billboards that have long since lost their hold:
The Burma Biscuit Factory,
Apache Cement, Kipling's Ale.
Blue ghost pith helmets hang like buddha marionettes
From the windows of antique shops
Where elephants hang from ceilings
And a banjo is in a display case.