Sketching Poems of Tarragona

1

I hold your leatherbound journal bent backwards

so the face of its pages are directed towards oncoming

traffic at this spanish gas station.

The sign says “Tarragona” the name of the coastal city in Spain

where the orange cliffs meet a teal abyss.

I’m wearing floral print and a fedora,

you’re wearing a mustache and an accordion.

We are hitchhiking lovers.

By 5 minutes a car pulls over to the side;

we ride on.

2

Vale, vale. Si, si, si.

You coo these strangers

with your perfect Spanish.

I’m scribbling estas palabras

out of order in these binds.

My eyes close for an hour

and open in La Mora

where we trek la montana.

3.

I play Jim Morrison through the speakers

clipped to my 75 liter backpack

as we climb the Spanish cliffside.

You smoke your spliff and I

smoke my pipe

as you read me underlined passages

from Thoreau.

“We’re not homeless,” you say, “we’re home-full.”

Where everything and everywhere is just as much

ours than anywhere else.

homefull