Prince of the Desert

While some saw him as just another

Nazit Saman illiterate horse trader,

dressed in his simple gallabeya,

I knew him better.

Lotfy’s Ladies  was to 

be the tee shirts 

never made.

As he shepherded us down 

the dusty lane to the desert

past the other 

stable owners envious looks, 

he rode proud.

Nimbly jumping off his horse

in the middle of the Sahara to

fix a broken stirrup,

adjust any strap,

coax reluctant rider 

and horse

through pass rocky;

rescuing the foolish

who drunkenly dared

ride at midnight.

Lighting a cigarette 

with one hand 

passing it 

while walking in the

cool gathering dusk of 

the desert.

With only the sound of 

horses hooves 

in the eternal sand.

His eyes could see 

the soul, knowing what to say.

If gay was the mood,

he laughed.

If pain was etched on

the face

he consoled.

Still in sleepless nights

I call the memories

to quiet life’s turmoil,

galloping up the dunes

cantering the straights

lightening my soul,

until sleep comes.

Lotfy Abdul Aziz dropped dead early one morning of a massive heart attack at age forty-five. The victim of a life of sweet tea, cigarettes and cases of beer.  The stress of being the family peacemaker, never-ending. In keeping with Islamic tradition, his body was washed and wrapped in a clean white sheet and placed in a rocky grave that very day, with no women present. Not far from the imperturbable gaze of the Sphinx and the Sahara he loved.

Rest in peace dear friend.

March 2015