A.C. on my Loins

makes me nostalgic
for Barcelonetta
sleeping on benches
in the Olympic Village
smoking chocolate
in the Mediterranean
gravel while vagrants
train kites and fly
their mutts,
scoop pesetas
from the coin returns
of the telephones
and juggle indolence
between the fingers
of their seaweed toes
kelp pubis
oil-slick chancletas
and union jack flagpants.
makes me heady
in the ways of elder
amphibians, lizards
and mizzenmen.
makes me thank the galaxy
pigeons can't soar
far from the loam
of the sun,
that sponge of dirt.