The Marrakech Stain

The screen glowed, a blue light

on the kitchen wall.

Another city. Another bite.

I felt the sudden call.

To that corner stall, the smoke

rising. The flatbread, hot.

Not quite bread, not quite choke,

a specific char I got

on my fingers, then my shirt.

A greasy spot, a ghost

of a memory, not hurt,

but a flavor I have lost.

You can't make it here.

Not the air, the dust, the way

the vendor yells, his fear

of the day, or just the day.