I’m not one for travel poems because
they remind me
of when friends make you watch their home
videos from when they were a kid. Or
when they get back from holiday and
want to show you a PowerPoint
of all the places they’ve been.
I don’t care. I wasn’t there. Roll me in a rug
and throw me in the sea already.
But tonight I lay on a rooftop under a Moroccan sky,
the sun eating the sea until
everything became tangerine. Three men below
started up the kamenjah and began to sing.
Two cats stopped fighting and folded into my lap.
The woman in the small store I buy nectarines
from each day - she was there too. This sky, she
says, it’s like the days themselves -
Each time different. Each time the same.
this shitty little town under the hill
with a beach break and pink light that vibrates
I guess you had to be there. I guess
you had to see it to believe it.