No drivers in the snakes of buses

No drivers in the snakes of buses — That's how King Rama's city met us. But not the Rama of the Hindus' mantras. Where Siamese have been born for ages Rice and coconut, mango with chili pepper. And under the sun, like an egg in a pan, Skin browns like a piglet in an oven, Till it's the color of a brickyard jug. The smell of food — drool right down to your chin. It stretches over the asphalt like a river. If you're not at peace with yourself, By day's end your belly bursts from all the flavors. In the many-eyed, grimy scrapers of clouds The blue of the sky hurries to darken. A crowded chaos of sounds from teeming streets The city multiplies, wanting to fill itself up. This enormous multicultural liner Will take everyone on board. No doubt — a designer rules here Who gets his counsel from the Buddha.