Another in a series of 75-word poem novels

Photo by Laura Cortesi on Unsplash

There could be
no surprises left,
she thought,
as she made her way
through the ancient market,
wielding her cane
like a scimitar
against the small brown gypsy boys
begging for just one Dirham, inshallah.

Pungent scents of paprika, chilies,
garlic, camel dung, smoky incense
invaded her nostrils
as mosquitos helicoptered
down inside her veil
to drink from descending
rivulets of sweat.

At last, desperately thirsty,
she spotted Rick’s Café Americain,
certain he would be there.

––Adapted from a series of 75-word novels, just for the fun of it.

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