Everyday Beirut
 Most days in most places,
 Can be the same,
 I get up in Beirut,
 And take a coffee,
 In a cafe,
 The sun dangling above me,
 Like a lamp,
 Or on a terrace,
 Like by the lake in Geneva.
 But here the Mediterranean,
 Is lapping,
 Just a faint taste of salt,
 The difference in the air.
 The lip of the ceramic cup,
 Catches mine,
 The electric of Expresso,
 Passes through me,
 Like in Geneva.
 The cranes rise,
 Like boat-masts,
 Like the sky is a lake,
 The city line a shore,
 Its buildings tethered,
 To the clouds.
 Where am I,
 I ask myself,
 As so many migrants,
 From Beirut do,
 In Geneva,
 Or from Syria do,
 In Beirut.
 Can we live in two places
 At the same time?
 Glowing with Beirut,
 While taking coffee,
 Its reflections in the lake.
 Melting with Geneva,
 While sipping,
 A cocktail,
 In the Beirut evening,
 Cranes rising,
 Like “Jet d'eau” all around.
 When we put two photos together,
 They start to blend,
 Reflect and shimmer,
 Off each other,
 Like Beirut and Geneva.
 What is it that makes the difference,
 Except a salty scent,
 A photographic presence.