My worry takes the form of a daydream. I see him weaving through a virtual city, rumpled print-outs creased in his hand. Sweat making maps on his back, as the capital struggles to welcome him. His bag dragging lower with every corner turned - the rattle of the travelling pharmacy packed within. Something for pain, for digestion, for sleep or it’s lack, something for blisters. But nothing for getting lost.
And all the while the shadow of the angel moves with him. She’s lost her way too. Cast herself further south than she ever intended. Blown down on a fair wind, with the litter gathered in doorways. Waving good-morning in coffee bars and goodnight in strip clubs. The vowels still muddle in my mouth and I wake wondering how many South American countries I can name with one breath.