We make it home in the night, and in the night, standing on the corner for the length of a burn, there is not one car moving on Broadway, nor Bullard neither, and the rain is just dropping ever so lightly, more of a mist.

We sleep long and rise to the very best java, lina, and the wholly divine burrito of potato, egg, and green chile, and we drive, to the next little town over, for a real live poetry reading at the library while hoi polloi natter outside for the homecoming parade. This is the simple truth.

Maybe add more later it’s a lush intermittent kind of spill in these skies.

***

In the evening afterwards, the Opening Ceremonies, which were far from the expected thing.

Most of the time consisted of a talk and slideshow from the photojournalist behind Enrique’s Journey.

So many people in this world in such dire straits.

My troubles seem small and I’m a little ashamed at my own whining. Barletti’s photos and words taught me a little appropriate gratitude for what I do have.