I've got the urge to travel again (or Morocco Part 1)

I've got the urge to travel again.
That jolt in my feet that pushes me out the door
           is most definitely trying
                      to shove me outside
                                and get me to see
                                          things that lie beyond my doorstep
                                                         that smells of soot, old snow,
                                                                         rubber boots, and salt

So I go
To Morocco.

Taxi! Two hundred  euro?  Twenty euro!
    on we go
           past national flags
                  casbah-looking buildings
                       arabesque arches loom everywhere
                              merchants hawk spices pungently
                                   a man with an orange cart, stares at me,
                                         calls me over to partake in his succulent feast
                                                 so bold, so sweet, so un-packaged and sans-cellophane

He's as boisterous as the fruit he hawks

I choose the man who looks like a beggar
       four or so scraggly teeth left
          a steel-wool beard hanging off limp jowls
               a robe that had seen better, more traditional days
                         he sells dates as wrinkled and dark as his face
                              I wonder where he sleeps at night (2 dirham's worth)
                                  If his stories are as rich as the fruit he sells (about a handful)
                                       his memories as detailed as the alleys of wrinkles on his face?

               
There are no street signs here.