Camille breezes through security,
unpacks her laptop, checks email,
Facebook, from an airport café.
The trim waiter brings hot chowder,
an icy mimosa, offers tempting desserts.
In an hour, she’ll lift off from San Francisco,
wave goodbye to parched California:
crowded cookie cutter houses,
At the boarding gate,
imagines a clean slate,
herself starting over.
Departure from Been There And Done It To Death.
Destination: Adventure. Possibility. Barcelona. Madrid.
While in Spain, Camille renounces
her vegetarian past, craves meat
in every form, morning and night.
Salivates over salami, thin prosciutto slices,
grows wet at the sight of foil-wrapped ham.
Crisp bacon seduces,
weans her from breakfast yogurt.
Siren song of steak and sangria for lunch.
By dinner, her appetite is reduced
to bruschetta sprinkled with chorizo,
a bit of green salad, shards of hard cheese.
All night she fantasizes flesh in many forms:
succulent pork, mouth-watering beef.
Sleeps soundly, lost in carnal dreams.
Camille has known her share of chameleons.
This silver Spaniard with metallic stage props
simply one more performance artist
camouflaged by imaginative makeup.
He postures, plays to the crowd,
donation can before his podium,
aggressively shilling for money.
The man has neither humility nor shame.
Stares and smirks, intuits exactly
what Camille is thinking
as she flings a small coin,
pauses to appraise
his trim, muscular body.