A poem about making room for the new
This dizzying feeling takes me to unknown places.
I climb walls, lift carpets, and dust off dirty shelves,
So I can finally fit in.
I listen to cumbia in a smoke-filled room,
Inhaling the scent of lust and marihuana.
Then a low bass beat makes its way through the brass ensemble,
Then a dimly lit street lamp harbors a lonely accordion,
Whispering memories of Buenos Aires into the night air.
There is no room for me now.
So I’m digging my roots into the pavement until it gives in.
Organic matter beats solid structures time and again.
I listen to it all with the nostalgia of a primary forest,
Whispering origin stories in a thousand-cricket orchestra.
I have the four seasons on my side,
And it’s only spring.