Travel To Algarve Poem by jan hansen

Travel to Algarve

Eight boxes in a row in the middle of a grimy room, boxes looking
like each other. What's in the boxes? The stale air of a perfumed boudoir?
Or the sweet breeze of a passing butterfly?
Wrapped boxes, one of them could be full of shit. If so, I hoped
it would be horse manure, I can't think of a sweeter aroma
no addresses, though, not going anywhere soon.
A man dressed in a grey storeroom coat came in and carried the boxes,
one at a time (to fill time to five o'clock) to a corner, one on top of the other
no interested what might be in the boxes, as he had carried millions
of them before from nine to four.
The stockroom had a window high up on the wall to stop warehoused
things from escaping; what do I know?
The light was fading we better things to do
one can't hang about all day doing but nothing wondering why square boxes
that look perfectly identical can be so different inside.
Finally, I opened a box and found myself sitting on an oak tree trunk
in the valley of the naked woman, considering her full-rounded tits
I looked up and saw the oak's malevolent eye staring at me; before,
I could make my escape, I was hit by a leathery branch
oh, pain, make me strong
I forgave the oak had been standing there for hundred years
The former pope flagellated himself has been said, this, perhaps to strengthen
his fading faith; but he was a charming man, so we bear him no ill will
The Valley of the naked woman has a hidden fountain
no tracks lead to there, the landscape is guarded by thorny bushes
and impotent apple trees.
After twenty years in the Algarve nothing to brag about