On a stone bench in the Plaza Mayor
I'll write some new poems, top up the tan
American voices I can't ignore
Even worse, British ones! It was my plan
That my tour would avoid them. But how can
I deny them what I claim? Right to roam
Wherever we wish; appreciate those lands
Of other language, squares of yellow stone
More than just paddling fattened toes in foam
I'll take a break from taking snaps. I'll home
In on the sounds as I sit here. Waiter
Clinks coffee cups, some students lying down,
Excited chat. At some distance, a drone
Of voices mingling like crickets. Half-four...
No, half-five already. But still, the sun...
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