In the Village of Tourists
As I negotiate the cobblestone
streets, I notice the villagers,
how they know the angle
and feel of the stone, the tilt
the body requires and the force
to resist the pull downward.
The old men and women own this.
And I study them especially—
I am no weaker than they.
Yet I falter, finding my ankle
precariously twisted,
my knees strained, my calf
muscles tight. I alternate
between finding my footing and
slipping on stone.
Embarrassed, I take pictures,
as tourists are excused. At ease now
with my awkwardness, I enjoy
the lines and turns of the village houses,
the sea always at the base
of the mountain and filling the frame
of my eye. I smoothly step
into the world that simply
moves each foot from stone
to stone, catching a new view—
a sudden doorway painted blue,
a shadow in a hallway, lace
curtains tied to a nail, open
shutters, a birdcage in a window
to the sea, a parrot
speaking my own language
with its silent posture.
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