from those peculiar months i spent
in a zesty land of palms and caste
what sticks out most in memory is walking
on that first day, puffed up canuck
thick make-up melting ghostly mask
i walked out of the hostel on a mission
sticking to daringness like glue
on a beachfront avenue, seeking
a cartão telefônico for so-called listening and speaking
three ghastly, arduous hours passed
like publicly unrestrained gas
in which i came to curse my foolish choices
shamed for directions at bus stops,
the days improved my portuguese
marching along demolished roads became common
between disorganized transport routes
trees busted out, extending roots
through centres of cracked gravel plates on sidewalks
i would not heed advice at first
unsafely strolled through every street
alone and ready for the shock that followed shortly
a gun of poverty was pulled
and google phone, a father's gift
was freed to fate somewhere inside a favela
exhausted, on my way to work
i'd see mirages in hot air
for lunch, i'd walk to bakeries on every corner
on weekends, strolled along the beach
cluttered with signs of shark attacks
of course, the week of carnival called for parading
on cobblestone, behind fun bands
of frevo, samba, maracatu
but at the end of those 2 years, i tired
decided walking was enough
and took to flying in the sky
starting with all the way back home to canada