It’s been years since Gijon
and you say I was really happy.
––Since the clubs all night, and breakfast
in those meat shops that could suck the life
right out of your brain through your nose.
The dangling pigs, dried and tired,
singing last nights’ cantos with an odor unmatched.
It was the mornings, after endless
glasses of wine in the evening, when  we craved
only a bottle of warm Coca-Cola.
It was the cobbled, archaic streets
that convinced me I was home.
Watching soccer games on battered
televisions, and cheering for teams
we didn’t even know, next to the wharf
with strangers who smiled as if they
held the key to life and might give it.
It was Gijon five years ago with its
tanned beaches and loudspeakers
when I couldn’t hear what you were
saying on the payphone, and didn’t care.
It was there I got lost in back streets
near knife shops, and was content
to simply drop into the nearest bar
and remain lost forever.
It was five years ago that I left my
coat on the bench just off
La Calle de Culebra, and I couldn’t
seem to find the street ever again.