We hike down to the bottom of the Rambla,
maybe to report a stolen wallet.
The statue of Columbus stands so tall, it
casts a sundial shade on the ensemble,
fat and foreign, lolling through the stalls
of animals and flowers. Turning right,
we pass the Hotel Gaudi where the night
is calling as it does when twilight falls.
A little further in this corridor
we give up hope of finding the police.
The bars disgorge their guilds to the caprice
of crime where cracked graffiti chafes a door
that totters, bleeding like a razor wound,
a smokey light congealing in an ark
of misery. And from the cobalt park
across the street, we hear a croaking sound,
an ancient whore who cackles as she’s taken
from behind in what at first appears
to be a murderous attack. The jeers
about the square convince us we’re mistaken.
That we’ve come too far. That it is we
who might need help. Or that we’re helpless now,
anonymous, uncompassed on a scow
of shipwrecks in a road behind the sea.
Barcelona, June 22, 2009
Photo by Lacomba