In the exit-window on my hotel room: a red cord, swinging. A red chord, singing. I mistyped. Like this, I kept mis-lighting myself on vacation. I stole my grandmother’s ring, wore it every day. Baedecker heart nostalgic for engagement. Bottle-eyed, I was tourisma. Movie-gummed in a panoramic view. In squares, pigeons flew hymnatical from my palms. My head a cooing flicker, I drew rickshaws wherever I went. I had packed a suitcase full of white handkerchiefs, so I let every man that called to me guide me. To be pick-pocketed exotically is to be touched. My white palm at a red chord, exit window along a dark-skinned wrist. So I kissed the foreign men. That was my indulgent appetite, my American largesse. I paid well to make them wait all afternoon.
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