Living here
is a revisitation


which is to say
one can have a distance


to where they are
in the sounding

of a car horn.
Even the passing

of a cop car
only gives rise

to muted adrenalin
and the seagulls

are dirty and well
suburban, arguing

to no-one like
spaced out drug dealers

who’ve just been ripped off
blaming our fabric’s

lack of St. Jerome
or beatific teachings

of drunken Basho
on a rowdy rave.

There are hotels
with solitary bands

playing reggae
as mass to jam

cover ten bucks
I enter

and they sadly look at me
as if I were a pilgrim

arrived in Coptic secrecy
with pockets of revelry

and sleeves tugged
the only proper cultivado

in the dunes of dividing lines
to the road outside

I decide to buy a drink
to ghost celebrations

and applause
WOOHOO

the reggae band
keep playing

looking at each other
for approval of

unplanned lick
landing on a sweet minor seven

flaring to someone else
who else is left to cheer?

I may as well sleep here
if the bar staff made me

a toddy.