| The mist is seeping off the ocean coast in | | | | Minnesota to worry about, or eleven inches of |
| Lima-seeping I say, seeping up and into | | | | snow overnight, just an ocean a few blocks |
| Milaflores Park, by the café: El | | | | away, and sunny days. |
| Parquetito this sunny, Tuesday afternoon, | | | | |
| where I am having my coffee and coke, sitting | | | | The park is green, the fog has reached it |
| back absorbing the moment, writing this down | | | | now, it is also reaching me, in El |
| for you. Other than that, doing nothing, | | | | Parquetito, but it will fade with the heat of |
| nothing, I say, nothing at all. | | | | the day, it always does. Romina is serving us |
| | | | today (she is young and happy, always |
| Somewhere in the background the nation's song | | | | smiling, goes to school in the evenings); |
| is being played, and what really is going | | | | Rosa will have Cebiche, for me, Lasagna. |
| through my mind on this sunny day is: who | | | | |
| will ever remember this one simple day. | | | | I like the watching, listening, smells of the |
| | | | surrounding actions and motions of the |
| My wife is reading the book: "Last Autumn and | | | | café, I feel like I am underwater, |
| Winter," poems out of Minnesota, and all | | | | watching everything, like an invisible alien. |
| around her the world seems busy, hot, sounds | | | | Ah! but who will remember a simple day like |
| with entities of life. No potholes, like in | | | | this, if I don't write about it? |