A Brand-Spankin-New Poem

In the close-leaned alleys
of Zaragoza, outside the hotel
rented for the shower and private
pulp walls, and the breeze across
open skylights of the top floor.
Not for the view, all TV antennae and
medieval church steeples of brown
and black stone. In the alley
the hotel empties on silver-worn
cobblestones, and there, beside
a miniature studio-apartment stove,
is Jeremy in his white sailor’s
liberty uniform versus the dingy
dusty rusted stove. One hand
leans on top as he bends over
in the manner all our generation
knows: the way that bemoans,
I have drank a recoculous amount
of alcohol at the Irish Bar, and here
I stand/lean/crouch/stumble/sway
in a sootened alley on silver
cobblestones smelling the foreign
sewage, wasted.

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