Sometimes I awaken and I do not know where I am.

Sometimes I awaken and I do not know where I am.
What room, what bed, what time in my life?
Then something:

The sound of women speaking so quickly I can not tell if it is an argument or a tale of surprise.
The whistle of the bus as it breaks for the Policia Acoscado and then floors the accelerator for the next.
A toneless whistle like Ruby's, practicing till she is faint.

Or the pungent smell of chicken boiling in the early morning making me nauseous.
The barking of small dogs with protection on their minds.
The sharp footsteps of high heels.

Sometimes I dream of an artist I have never seen, who makes sculptures from printed tin.
One looks like a spinning kite I lost to Saint Margret's Bay.  She takes medicine cabinets and safety deposit boxes and makes each document or vial into a museum piece and disappears.

Sometimes I awaken and I do not know where I am.

I hear the whir of the fan and watch my coloured curtain float with the breeze.
The blender forcing juego pulp, systematically from #1 to #8, then stops.
The sound of hammer on concrete day or night.

Sometimes there is no sound at all.
An eerie silence of absence and I know it is a forgotten Saint day. 
A holiday no-one speaks of but honors.

Sometimes I awaken and do not know where I am.



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