Lost in that I can’t be found
crossing Campo Pequeno for salad
or beer riding my scooter
toward the Marginal
under the aqueduct
through Praca Espagna
where Marco sold two
Euro pieces of hash
he tore off with his finger
it looks like no one
lives here she said
when we left Avenida de Berna
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
