The Tapping Cane - April 8, 2025

window open, fan on high

in a warm dank room of a beat-up hotel

at the foot of the Indian Himalayas

on sheets washed in the Ganges River

scented with the odor of humanity

we lay, sleepless

then the taps, twelve followed by twelve more

four sets on the cobbled streets then a long low

trill through the window - all dressed in white

a gray-haired man with wooden staff, whistling

next morning they tell us he’s the low-tech security

sounding throughout the night, an old man pacing

the corridors of the town, a true watchman

like the old dog that wanders through the sheep

at night, suspicious of anything not asleep

wolves of course, but any creature with

beady eyes skirting along shadows

even sleepless sheep with nightmares

about why they are here