The Morning Commute

Driving through Kandahar City. Morning. 0730.

We’ve come straight from the airfield

and I’m holding a coffee, fresh

from the boardwalk.

There are goats to steer around.

A man stares.

Ah, says Christian. The morning commute.

I look down at my cup,

feeling ridiculously at ease.

Maybe I should get rid of this, I say,

taking another sip.

There are more goats. And two women in burqas,

hustling along. I catch the worry in the brown

flash of their heels like a sideways glance,

like maybe the rumours are true

and we’re all rape-hungry Americans.

Why, asks Christian.

He drives carefully around them and waves – Ladies.

Even at this slow crawl we raise

dust clouds in our wake.

I don’t know, I say, shrugging.

Because we’re at war? It feels unprofessional.

Christian shrugs back.

So we hit an IED, he says.

The worst that happens

is you spill your coffee.