dreaming in barcelona

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I am dreaming these days,
but not in a language I remember;
I wake up with some sense
of where I’ve been . . .
of stories I’ve been told . . . .

In the resonance of my
ruminations, I feel at home
riding strange trains with
Schanuzers who now live
only in my memory.

My father has walked by,
but across the room — I
could only see his back;
I don’t think he was
expecting me.

Sometimes I think I should
make more effort to
remember: keep a pen
by the bed and write
madly when I wake . . .

No. For now I will wander,
much like we did on the
story-ed streets of Barcelona,
soaking up snippets
of Spanish I didn’t know —

save the food words;
I will wander and wait to
be found by that one morsel
of memory that keeps
inviting me to taste and see.

Peace,
Milton

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