The other night,
I dreamed of you and Katmandu.

It was of that first night in that
Guest House, where the seedy
proprietor tried to sell me the
12 year old Kitchen Girl for
20 US Dollars. And throw in
a small bag of Black Hash for free.
Then upon my refusal,
Lowered the price to Ten,
And again I told him no.

The place where the rat came,
up onto our bed and nearly,
ran across my head.
Where February winds threatened,
To blow the shutters in.
The smell of burning lamp fuel,
Fouling the stifling cold room air.
You insisting I not put out the light,
To prevent the rat's return.
That foreign place, the Himalayans base
That city, that cold room.

Our stomachs rumbled from the tainted
dinner rice and so called, chicken meat.
As always your feet like two popsicles,
In the bottom of our sleeping bag.  

Yet our bodies radiated a familiar heat,
The only civilized comfort of that night,
So very far away from home,
With you all wrapped up in my arms.

I have not thought,
Nor dreamed these things,
In over 35 years,
Visions no doubt lost among,
All the bitterness and tears.

And yet last night there they were,
Of you and me in our bed.
And I smiled at this,
Our shared and lost remembrance.