I met a salesman in Durbah square,
quiver full of flutes of sandle and teak.
His hair black mambaed,
a glissading eye. Hand out for rupees,
only four hundred and fifty.
I turned on my heel,
refused to be a prey to another shark in Freak street
keen to invade my space.
He tugged at my sleeve,
raised a flute to his lips,
inlaid with silver,
made by a lama
in some retreat or refuge
As he played, mellow on my ear-
I turned again
as his tongue snaked in the hole.
Made me want to dance
with a jewel in my belly,
slithering around the tonic sol fa.
"Cobra magic ."
He hissed as he rolled it on my lips