They say people who live in glass houses

They say that people who live in glass houses

Shouldn’t throw stones.

But people who live in bubbles

Shouldn’t throw anything.

I’m on an island 

To translate a glyph

That’s recently been discovered.

I have the urge to dress

Like the people here do,

So that I don’t stand out or offend.

I ask them where they’ve gotten their particular brand

Of American looking t-shirts and shorts.

My guide opens a bamboo chifforobe full of apparel,

And tells me to pick out some things for myself, 

As he tells me it’s all stuff

That’s washed up on their shores.

And when I look closer, I see,

The only reason the colors in their outfits 

Complement each other so scientifically well,

Is the past they share

Of salt sea-soakedness and sun washings

That has faded them just enough

To be perfect.

And as they eagerly lead me deep 

Into the jungle that has overtaken the heart 

Of the forgotten temple complex

Where the ancient writing has only lately been detected,

I know that no matter what it says,

And no matter where else I travel, 

I will forevermore wear these 

Miss-matched, over-size island clothes 

My guide has offered me

From his own closet,

And forever ponder how scientifically well

All races of washed up, threadbare humanity

Could complement one another

If we only would so choose.

-jenn