These people; they won’t recall
the gun grey skies, those steel covered
sodden streets, an army
searching out a place to park,
the tiny tenements that steal your cash
just so you can earn some more.
They sit on sun dripped promenades,
in wall-less cafes, lazily downing
their sangria, perhaps a cup of tea,
and wave casually to those they know
who amble by. The sea whispers,
conjures beach nibbling waves, recedes.
They watch, unthinking, beneath the palms.
The next day it’s the same.
And the next. And the next.
Reminded that, amongst those wet,
car infested streets, lay a history,
an intellectual gallery to spike the brain,
they would stare blankly
and neither understand nor care.