Travel Blogger Poem by Lee Boueri

November makes breathing look like vaping,
short chimneys grow on the street,
watch the world waking through the glass,
before the waitress with the coffee pot
and the Brooklyn accent refills the mug.

Traders busy in shops along side ghosts of a thousand years
surroundi a market square where a painter sits beneath his easel,
waiting patiently for the tourist dollar to drop in,
a café selling latte macchiato, which
in any other city is neither a latte nor a macchiato.
No time to argue,
the tourist bus is ready to leave for Auschwitz-Birkenau.