Yellow-painted steel hurdles two
rivers flowing, destined to be one.
Masonry peeks from under
blacktop on one-way streets.
You can always tell where
the ironworkers lived.
Night has fallen in Greece
on our first day off the ferry.
There are a few other RVs
in bundles along the seashore
that, like us,
come from Bavaria or Italia.
We place our clothes on the
high tide line and run
for the glittering black sea.
I can see my toes beneath me
and the pale bodies of
German women bobbing,
laughing to be on holiday.
Moving up the base of a pine,
Snaking through branches older
than I am and stronger too.
A childlike song played by
laughter and scrapping wood.
Looking out to see rooftops
or the sacred valley of Peru.
My grandpa plays the Sound of Music
on long car rides bouncing between
longitudes on the Pennsylvania turnpike.
Back and forth through cutaway hillside
exposing the layers of folded rock
and hometowns amongst the valleys
of the autumn Alleghenies.
We lie in the shallows as wind
whips over our blushing bodies
making waves on the briny gulf.
Vagabonds cutting limes for chelas
while dusting away the peppery sand.
I stop to pick up colorful relics between
the beached fishing boats and cangrejos.
Over the dunes, there is a small gorge where
we watched bats escape into twilight.
This is the place where Cortes landed.
It’s 635 AM and I am awake.
In twenty minutes, I get up to smoke a cigarette
and walk outside in the crisp winter air.
I know that you will be asleep
while I pace looking upwards
at the tender blending of vibrant pastels
in the morning sky. A crow
sounds from an opposite tree.
I wrote this for my composition class.