The Opiate, Winter Vol. 12
Americans on Holiday Donovan James Stomping atop cobblestone streets, Capturing a filament of existence, In a photograph, Americans meander down Thin and weathered Cities like tattered scarves, Rivulets connect spats Of old colony architecture, Past dens emanating a musk Of fried cheese, The dim hum of tortillas smacking Against stone, Exuberant cathedrals drenched In vibrant colors, Lively merchant booths house Plump women politely offering Hand-carved pottery, And the ancient masks Of Spanish gods. Kids whizz past, the melody Of laughter floating Past wanderlust crows, Careening upwards, While statuesque old men Perch upon canes, Locals curiously observe The odd sight of three American men traveling, Alone, out of season, We flicker from one immediate interest To another, We are boys again, Dancing along, The broken arrow Of time. The earth breathes, Thick white fumes from soil, Humid dew stirs
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