Drift

I think about how much I miss you    on my solitary walks from Lavapíes    to Sol to Malasaña,    Along the river through Imperíal    to La Latina to El Palacio Real.    The sullen eyes of Africa    with their unspoken epitaphs    of rape death and fatigue    from the Sahara follow    the path I take,    the path I take everyday.          I am not Spanish    and never will be,    still I tremble with fear    when the rythmic drumbeats    echo down my waist.    Chants of U.S.A, U.S.A, U.S.A    are heard in the distance    squeezing the small rock    in the center of my stomach.    My hands are cleansed    but the scent of blood lingers on    from a war not that long ago,    but I feel no remorse    nor deny it.       The frigid lake effect chill    does not run through the white of my bones,    I am not made of that tough blue collar stuff    because the dry spanish breeze is too much    for me to wait at the bus stop.          Here life is not real    with nights that live on    past the breaking dawn,    melodic tears of the Roma    recited by imposters,    and rusted brick buldings    with bar after bar after bar.    Ponce De León searched for    the fountain of youth    when it was always    in the old world    although,    youth is very different    from never aging.          I have fallen out of love    with Madrid, only because    I have fallen in love with    you, and just you.