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Shame

It was just a little tourist jaunt:
We drove our cool cousin from America
to see the seashore, the beach, and then
the working girls along the coastal road
pale and alone silhouetted in the sunset
by the great Mediterranean shore.
“As it gets dark,” I explained,
“they become bold,
take off their clothes
to beat the competition.”

“Amazing,” said our guest
and I in my tour-guide voice replied
“Just one of the many sites
in the holy land.” He reached
for his camera to ensure
this memory would last,
and flashed a photo before
I could even consider
the negative implications.  

Suddenly the car was surrounded.
“The film! The film!” Screamed
one girl in red bra and skirt.
Our tourist didn’t get it, sat
aghast at the scenery
coming alive. Someone from behind
started lifting the fender —
I think he was a man
dressed as a woman — the car shook so badly —
and mace sprayed into the open window.

“Give her the whole fucking camera,”
someone screamed from inside the car
hands covering tearful eyes.

 And the film flew out
into the sands.

It was a miracle we got home
albeit without a picture but with
our vision almost intact.