Lost in that I can’t be found
crossing Campo Pequeno
or riding my scooter
toward the Marginal
under the aqueduct
through Praca Espagna
where Marco sold two
Euro bits of hash
and the boys drank
beer all day
or boarding a plane
to our house in Amsterdam
where my Josh White
and Big Bill Broonzy
CDs were it got
to where I felt at home
it looks like no one
lives here she said
no one does I said
For twenty three years
there was a leak in the roof
I stuffed it with a plastic bag
when we first moved in
forgot then spent ten years
writing and drinking smoking
while it endlessly rained
mornings hungover on terraces
wandering the east afternoons
leaving the lotus eaters
to laugh alone
one night around eleven
I went out they were still there
what are you doing here they asked
the dumb music blared
I was bored I said
of writing and drinking smoking
no one knew I wrote
