seventeen

our bus crawls through the streets of tashkent
our intourist guide sits behind the driver
silently pointing directions
the city is frayed and tired
dust grey and crumbling concrete
buildings stacked in even columns blend together
my tired traveled nerves
blurred by a monotone wash of soot

tashkent's lenin square
                                 to our right
another stone-faced assembly line statue
set in concrete
shadowed by local parliament
and ministries

i lose track of our tour
i only hear our guide's words
their bizarre ordered neatness
like the school children of moscow
with staccato closed rhythm
                                       pure timing and pattern
( i remember her meeting a fellow guide
  for coffee
  drinking and talking in russian
                                             and english german french and italian
  each word chosen for a particular meaning
  languages drifting back and forth
  for convenience )

in this dull blur of buildings
our guide points one out
                                   proudly
grimy brown from pollution
it seems quite ordinary
but this building
                       she says
is the ministry of agriculture
painted beautifully brown
the colour of earth