Dangerous, well travelled.
Young survivor of life’s
prisons, with little anger
or worries left.
I stopped here again,
to stay in what had
become it’s only hotel.

I walked, tinged pink.
Armed in confident
bravado among the shimagh
branded, AK47 brandishing
troops of War Lords.

To, at night, wonder if
that open roof top restaurant
survived and still served
Italian, then choose the
hotel disco and a drink.

I danced the only White,
lacking little in the rhythm
of my varied partners. When,
sudden alarm, I moved alert!

In shock, the place stopped
to stare at me unmoving,
then at  my partner laying
floored at my feet, before
shuffling away distant.

The barrel was cold -
my neck warm and damp.
Surrounding in this hush
they asked; “Why?”

I requested the return
of what was mine.
Lifted and clamped
in place, she freely
gave back my thin red
leather wallet.

My bruised partner, left
assisted! One more drink
before I too wandered
away, up to my room.

Later, the same
morning, I paid and
left Mogadishu for
the final time.