Sightings

There’s something strangely anti-urban
Seeing someone with a turban.
When I picture desert views,
A turbaned man is what I’d use.

He’d be astride a camel’s back
In Turkey, Yemen or Iraq.
His garments would be light as air
To keep him from the sun’s harsh glare.

But yesterday, smack in the city –
Noisy, crowded, hot and gritty,
There approached a turbaned guy,
The rest of him in shirt and tie.

Two blocks down, I saw a friar,
Wearing full-blown monk’s attire:
Flowing robe with sandaled feet;
Rope belt made the look complete.

New York’s such a melting pot;
We’ve heard that saying quite a lot.
Yet sometimes, still, a stranger’s guise
Can hit me with a real surprise.