Poet Authority Poem Terminal

Rain

On Ken's holiday.

This was unbelievable!

Ken glanced down at Lisbon's iconic limestone pavements.

Now ever so slightly damp from the misting of rain.

And braced himself for a walk.

He equipped elbow pads, kneepads, a helmet, and wrist guards,

Called whatever Portugal's equivalent of search and rescue is,

Let them know his route back to the hotel,

And requested they send out a team if he doesn't contact them by midnight.

Ken chose to give Lisbon's public transportation another chance.

He checked the bus timetable,

Pitched his tent,

Set up a camping stove,

And enjoyed an evening listening to the traffic pass by.

People must know I've visited Portugal.

Ken looked left.

Pessoa appeared.

Ken looked right.

Pessoa appeared.

Ken ran.

Barged into a shop.

Pessoa surrounded him.

There was no escape.

Which can be spelt in a way that is less easy to pronounce if you like.

Additionally it's in Sintra, in case you're looking for it.

It was inconveniently placed at the top of a mountain.

In a tremendously humid place.

Anyway,

Ken climbed the humid misty mountains of Sintra.

Palace in view.

But not really,

Because of the aforementioned mist.

In actuality he couldn't see much at all.

But he imagined it must be a rather impressive sight.

At the peak he clambered over tourists,

Reached the highest point of the palace itself,

And gazed back down the mountains.

Or at least he would have.

You know, if the mist wasn't in the way.

He'd been told about big waves.

Or towering waves.

To make things a bit more poetic.

He gazed at the oceans from the town.

Not today,

I suppose.

Alighting a plane.

In the country of Portugal.