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About Madrid
by Jilly Appleheimer

On Calle Princese my hands aren't mine
As the light changes to cross, and Spaniards bustle past,
I realize my transformation.
I invent myself anew, on these narrow streets.
And the girl from home remains for safekeeping,
The two have never met.
Never to return and maintain her former shape,
Collected and absorbed the smiles of friends from a journey,
Into my heart and mind, as not to loose a second,
I am free, frozen in time, and more alive than I've ever been.
 

On a bench above the Moncloa Metro stop,
At the top of the long crowded stairways
I people watch; fresh men, and petite women with soft features.
I realize that I am a giant on these streets,
But far less awkward now within.
I am yet another people watcher's subject for observation,
Descriptions jotted in a small notebook,
Curves sketched briefly in motion.
My long deliberate strides, still echo on the sidewalks of Parque Oeste.

In Plaza Mayor, kids cross-legged on cobblestone,
Guitars echo, ascend into the warm air, finally reaching heaven.
Wine fueled, animated conversations, laughter and songs,
Every soul living each moment in brilliant and passionate colors.
I lose myself in the apartment windows surrounding us above
I create stories for each, and walk myself through in my mind,
Where everyone's lives are Sangria sweet sugarry oranges.