the old world

in barcelona,

while waiting for

my father

to get off the ship

in his sparkling white

uniform, i remember how

the gypsy women 

would hold up their 

bronzed babies 

at the pier

and moan.

the horses stopped.

the drapes

of the wagons, dirty,

wind blown. old men

at the reins. 

i remember how

the babies cried.

feeling some strange

fear inside

me.

that this was a world

with darkness

in it.

not just light.