(Central Java)
He steppedfrom a shop doorway,
stood.
Our eyes held.
Then I was past
in the taxi.
A fair woman,
considered beautiful
there.
And he
lean, dark,
piratical.
Not Indonesian.
Too tall, curly-haired ...
a mystery.
That was all
until, back home,
headline:
These men missing,
believed dead.
He, centre photo.
Portuguese engineers,
East Timor take-over
(1979).
Already escaped
that day?
Or
visiting
and went
back ... ?
[Poem #86]
Sharing this, years later, with Poets and Storytellers United for Friday Writings #149: The Joy of Walking Away. (Not exactly on prompt, which fortunately is not compulsory, but at least it involves leaving.)