the road up to Ephesus

as we

climb the hills, the dirt

roads

to Ephesus,

the rug and garment

salesmen

and women,

crowd us,

and reach

for our arms. they

yell loudly at us

in broken English.

we are mere tourists off the boat,

off the long air conditioned

bus

that has taken us here.

do i need

another rug,

another shawl, or

blanket

or shirt that will shrink

three sizes

in the first wash?

another pair of sandals?

we are not rich,

despite what they believe

and shout.

we worked hard

and saved to get here.

we press on as if guilty,

bent to their voices

as if

carrying our own cross.