Escaped in one piece from the outer territories, still glowing with cooking pots, campfires, and wild dancing. Down the gangplank, onto the quay.
My little restaurant is gone. The baker’s been banished. The greengrocer De Groot now has bars on the window. Above it, a mermaid hangs. In the doorway stands a bald man, Ria on his arm.
On the terraces, the scent of fresh ink. Snakes crawl from sleeveless shirts, flowers coil around bare calves. Harry and Romero, I read. Shirley, written slanted. A lone anchor.
They’re coming for me, the bald one and his crew. Soon I too will carry my story on my skin.