Sat upon clay colored cushions
In the breadth of foreign land
two young men and a boy
listen in,
to Spanish TV

Mosquitos hover intently
upon warm humid air
lowering to replenish
with itchy precision

Flowery aromas,
of fruit-scaped hills
pour through parted Windows
of 13 glass panes  

a white sock and a black sock
the moment feels the same
still typing
trying to find,
my purpose here