Poetry

I think about how much I miss you   
on my solitary walks from Lavapíes   
to Sol to Malasaña,   
Along the river through Imperíal   
to La Latina to El Palacio Real.   
The sullen eyes of Africa   
with their unspoken epitaphs   
of rape death and fatigue   
from the Sahara follow   
the path I take,   
the path I take everyday.   
  
  
I am not Spanish   
and never will be,   
still I tremble with fear   
when the rythmic drumbeats   
echo down my waist.   
Chants of U.S.A, U.S.A, U.S.A   
are heard in the distance   
squeezing the small rock   
in the center of my stomach.   
My hands are cleansed   
but the scent of blood lingers on   
from a war not that long ago,   
but I feel no remorse   
nor deny it.   
  
The frigid lake effect chill   
does not run through the white of my bones,   
I am not made of that tough blue collar stuff   
because the dry spanish breeze is too much   
for me to wait at the bus stop.   
  
  
Here life is not real   
with nights that live on   
past the breaking dawn,   
melodic tears of the Roma   
recited by imposters,   
and rusted brick buldings   
with bar after bar after bar.   
Ponce De León searched for   
the fountain of youth   
when it was always   
in the old world   
although,   
youth is very different   
from never aging.   
  
  
I have fallen out of love   
with Madrid, only because   
I have fallen in love with   
you, and just you.