Praça do Comércio’s green equestrian statue and ochre-yellow walls bob
behind us as we, in the ferry, are crossing the shaken light,
having ahead of us the bus ride, up past the limestone cliffs
of the high-rise estates and the blockhouses of the Cape Verdeans
who’re seen in their headscarves and skirts hoeing the small maize fields
and the bare ridge from which we will descend towards the holiday apartments
to the long quiet beach where the shacks are shrunken wood mansions,
where the beautiful play soccer or stretch out tanning
instead of staring far into the haze awaiting the return of King Sebastião.
Now that vigil is reserved for the foreigner in us,
for he who would happily and endlessly ride a commuter ferry.