Walden, Sitting on a Bookshelf in a Hostel in Cuenca, Ecuador

 Thoreau is with me in my dorm tonight.

We will build a log cabin in my bunk

and plant bean rows on my neighbor’s.

 

I’ll reflect on the water stain constellations

spotting the ceiling

and the ancient pond,

stagnant on the floor of the shared bath,

which smells like someone just shared

a little too much.

 

Emerson and I will fill the nights

with our gay mirth,

much to the chagrin

of the drunk, sexually frustrated

German stranger trying to sleep,

 

and in the morning

I’ll take an endless carriage ride

through the entryway of the hostel

 

back to civilization.

***

(Cuenca, Ecuador -- November, 2018)

Once I had settled into my life in Cuenca, I made a habit of going to this coffee shop/restaurant/hostel in the center of the city to write. This café had the dim lighting that I like for writing and an almost European, cobblestone vibe to it. They had a bookshelf, and by coincidence, people had left copies of Walden in three different languages. I just thought it was ironic since the idea of the book is getting out of society and living a simple life, but the hostel itself is in the middle of a city with 800,000 people. I'll give the benefit of the doubt and assume that people were just passing through between long hikes and camping trips.