tourists


in the yard, horses snort,
kick at the sun and jump
for men in black caps
who clap and shout in portuguese

ease of a sunday afternoon
the same in every language

curly-haired girls stand back,
twist easter dresses
in their small hands

everyone waiting to be called
for dinner but us,
standing at the window
of our rented room

later, we’ll walk to town
for wine, fish roasted with garlic
and soft, white potatoes,
then lean into the dark
of a country road that is not ours