Hookah

In a North African neighborhood,
four black boys my age
sit on the sidewalk

smoking hookah.
Smoke rises into the air
and gets tangled around a Gare SNCF sign

that should lead me
back to my host family's apartment.
One boy breaks open a cigarette.

Algerian,
but probably Tunisian,
judging by the red tee shirts.

I take out my map of Nice.
Walking towards them,
I hope I won't get robbed.

Vive Tunisie, I say.
They cheer
And beckon me to sit down.

I hand my map to the boy to my left.
He offers me a pull from the hookah.
Je fume pas. I reply.

The boy to my right
drinks out of a bottle
covered by a brown paper bag.

A pretty girl with brown hair walks toward us
speeding up and not making eye contact.
Another lost American tourist

ignoring the long glances from
my new acquaintances.
I should offer my help but I'm trying to blend in.

The boy with my map points me
up Avenue de Suède.
I follow a dizzy maze

Of streetlights and blaring car horns,
until I reach Avenue Mausséna.
I made it back without bumping into my teacher. 

2007 James Roderick Geoghegan