when my feet were sore

we shuttled as tourists do
from one cobbled shop to the next
fitting in more than we should

seeking water, hoping for tea,
and happening upon the oceanfront
through the broken gate

all suddenly familiar
ruins piled in their own
kind of beach head,

covered with graffiti,
teenagers tramping for bait
grown ups looking on, mindful

the sea air insisting
in its universal way
that we all take breath;

the sun lowered itself
for vespers; propped
on an old stone wall,

you questioned me
in the wrong language
and I chided you

Inspired by a lovely travel poem by Jennifer Knoblock.