Fearing Spain
I don’t greet that fear now
that came when cars drove
through rainwater outside
thin, sometimes broken
hostel windows,
when I would question
anyone’s wakefulness,
bully in my mind those
who were brave and free
enough to drive
and would, past hostels-full
of foreigners who steal,
(history; language)
who sleep afraid
of one another.
What nerve ignoring
my loneliness, spraying
vomit-laced street
water onto my one
flat pillow;
what audacity shining
headlights through such
fragile panes; they should
be afraid, for this is
not my home.
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