A Morning after Flamenco

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When I was little, when away,

I suffered homesickness,

Though my house stank

Of stale (and fresh) cigarette smoke.

 

This hotel room shares the same smell,

The smell of disappointment,

Of tattered smoking jackets.

 

Outside, trucks idle,

Doors clang shut, the blue sky stretches

Across AndalucĂ­a and Africa.

 

Stretches,

Like one just awakening.