By the long pier
Whole families lived
With propane and tins,
Colored meals to sell.
Boats lay on the grass,
Waiting.
Kids wanted their pictures taken
With us, everyone did,
As everyone wanted ice cream
And a sense of style.
We could see the teens in long boats
Where the vines receded
To the mighty Irrawaddy
Fishing, playing, taking fares,
It was hard to say.
The only thing clear
In the hanging mist
Were the pagodas on the hill,
The gold that no one missed.
We could have walked the pier
It seemed forever.
The markets never ended,
They went as far as the land.
There was no end of opulence
Crammed in every stand.
There was no end of people
Carrying wares, wearing smiles.
And no one seemed to do anything
But talk, sit in families,
Braid as the whim hit them.
This is what they had warned us of:
The hordes of hopeless poor.
