hop out a high speed train onto a crowd of Pop Color, Hibiscus, Lou Reed, the city like a moveable theater, Chueca, Usera, Malasaña, you saunting down Atocha Avenue beneath the gleaming silver of the downstage where you shall become Poet Laureate, bay wreath and all. You, the omniscient narrator of minor details such as: Me, this morning, eating a sandwich with the bulgarian junkman, Aleksander, Boris, Hristo, then pushing pipes, pots, tools up the alley, I really didn't have elsewhere to go. Later that night, sitting over a beer i'll remember a joyous love lived wide open for others to see, a love that runs down the street's edge and into metro stations, a love sustained by a familiar lexicon, d'anar a dar el volt o sopar tall, a thumb-sucking love, teeth-kissing when love-making, a love enjoyed only in the absolute present and that light and that day and that night and how sacred everything is to me