Five hard months a foreigner,
And what have I earned?
The satisfaction of following my nose
Down any cobbled lane
No matter how narrow,
How clogged with people, vegetables,
Doomed chickens, or racks of defective track suits,
And coming out somewhere I faintly recognize,
Unfazed, armed with a good hunch
That this travessa must flow eventually
Into some estrada I’ve drifted by before –
Catching the currents,
Working my sails,
Surviving my own ignorance,
Bobbing along the surface of other people’s lives.