Rolling rrrs right to my soul

I don't handle.

I don't cope.

I bolt.

People protest: 'It only makes

your void bigger

and darker'

but---

A few pennies more

and I would be in

the sun. It would cradle me in that

familiar fuzz.

My lids would call it a day and

I'd see purples,

reds.

I could open my mouth

and lick the ocean

without touching any sand.

The streets would 

feel my feet as I 

drift, without aim,

in a fog that, for once,

doesn't blind me,

but cures me.

Naranjas y niños,

fruit carts and

men basking in 

mujeres jóvenes and 

nostalgia, their faces like

old trees, filled with

nicks and grooves that

history books pine to match.

I would be a serpent,

and the flamenco man the

charmer. The

bold chords and

assured, quick attack would

snatch the breath right out of 

me, and I would be cavil-free,

transfixed.

Spain...

Spain, Spain.

It calls my name in that

accent that makes me feel

like I'm

home.