In truth, I’m Lisboan
but two decades of poetry
have bled into the ground

beneath my feet.  A Triangle—

a park as an anchor—
An energetic groundwater
breathing amber roots.

Here, I am twenty again,

a blanket and a book,
a man-purse of pens
and paper,

sharing space with the homeless,

a bike, tipped on its side
nearby, the sound of water
rushing over steps

tumbling to daybreak.

Now I’m thirty-something (again),
Pokemon, crimson hair, a love story—
a sunset waiting to melt

summer into memory.

I’m only younger
by a few years, ice cracking
inaudibly, fingers clacking

poetry for the winter.

I’m nearly forty, now,
again, so many lines intersecting
the heart of a city

and it’s minutes til midnight.
in the triangle.  Dawn and sleep
still hours away—minutes

and memory
til midnight.