It is the small streets, the narrow passages
that call to you, that draw you in.
The quiet streets, free of tourists.
Anyone you meet there, unlike you, belongs.
The art on the doors is for themselves.
No one is afraid to let paint age, peel.
There is no one to impress.
Here and there a window box
with bright read geraniums
punctuate the drabness.
There are no post cards of this place.
It is too narrow. Too dark.
Stay still for a time and there is no noise
until the night, when meals are made
and families gather at the edge of the water,
when everyone comes home
here, in the narrow passages.
About this poem
No great secrets of life here. no deep emotion. Just a self reminder of the kinds of places that sing to me when I travel.