No matter how much love this great home, corridor width, the vast kitchen, warm rooms, a bathroom where one can sit to shit with legs straight if you will. Never mind the jokes
mom, who cling to one where you least think they, or their smile-ah, his smile, so sincere and sweet, and his smug face of freshly bathed.
Never mind the steep streets of this town that I come up with unusual agility in me, nor the taste of wood smoke and tortillas. Neither this ladrerío
, distant like a dream, it matters. Or exacerbated singing of the roosters that lights when the night is going to give matter. Neither the sound of people hitting the bricks of my house matter.
Tuesday Morning I go from here, and that's all that matters.
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