Once in San Antone
Along the riverwalk my soul took turns
it had never taken before. The landscape
of skin and fowl and vegetation introduced
a program of thoughts of unfamiliarity
that encouraged oral and penless poetry.
The language inspired Latino rhythms,
challenged me to finds words similar
to cerveza and como se dice. And, as my
tennis-shoed feet encountered both concrete
and water, I almost believed I had lived
here before with some sort of importance.
I saw the Alamo but did not enter–
it was aboveground and therefore off limits.
No matter what the reason, I stayed below
and pretended to exist beyond belief.
copyright j matthew waters
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