They have given you the name Obama
even though it isn’t yours.
The woman slicing cake behind
the counter her son wheeling through
the market loud when he sees you inside
yourself: Who is there?
What world do you see? I want to see.
In the medina a man offers water the jug’s
top blotted with tar. He puts on a jellaba
as it is six. I am Stevie Wonder he says
pressing shades over eyes. He points his eyes
to clouds rocks head from side to side.
His son plays a stringed instrument
until his fingers are numb.
What is the use of feeling without ardor?
The day to day of it the woman slicing
cake behind the counter.
You know his son stand beside him near
a loam wall. Straining horses pass
with scared skin. When they sleep
standing they are among fruit trees.
Craning necks to bite through white cores.
Crisp fresh the sound of surrender.
Obama let Stevie Wonder take
a picture with Obama.