Turkish coffee hopped
Along our nerve endings
As we jumped into a cab at Taksim’s edge.
The day’s last light
Fluttered over apartment balconies
Like a dying dove.
Young Roma,
Lean as leopards,
Assessed us dispassionately
As our cab rattled
Past the flea market turn,
And plunged into Kurdish alleys.
Women walked on grimy cobbles before us while
Our driver cursed their mothers
And stomped on the gas.
Cabbies — old soldiers
And gray wolves all —
Hate Kurds
And try to kill them
When they can, but
There are rules.
Grandmothers in long coats leapt,
Swift as gazelles,
For the safety of high curbs
Just ahead of the car’s growl.
Unperturbed, they stepped 
Into the cab’s blue exhaust,
Ears a-twitch beneath their headscarves,
For the next rabid cab.
Dusk covered Istanbul like soiled velvet, 
Its smooth purple nap smeared 
By odd blotches of light,
When we settled, bottles of Efes in hand,
On patio chairs.
The tense fast ended
As we sipped beer
And peace
Again flirted
With the old city.
Perhaps it will last this time.
There is hope for Turks —
For anyone —
Who can make such good beer.