Saturday morning, 10 a.m.  

And the old men are drinking Brahma from small glasses

In a windowless bar without a name

The metal curtain door not entirely rolled up

They stand smoking and sipping in the entrance  

Observing the housewife heading home with bread

A youth in Havaianas poking in the garbage for diamonds



The bar is unlit with folding metal tables and chairs

Decades of grime coat the textured paint

Broken cobwebs in the ceiling corners

Accumulated dirt, smoke, talk, grease and laughter

Somewhere in the dark, a kid working the counter

A sudden shout is caught in the webs like fly paper



Time is the settled dust from other Saturdays  

When they were younger men. Here comes another,  

Zipped up, limping across the street

Late to the ritual that has already started, never ended

They peel away a bottle cap and fill a fresh glass

And pile up the minutes a sip at a time

I took my break for dinner,

A rejected sandwich,

On the back loading dock

At the kitchen out at Hunter's Point,

  

I can feel the wind

I see the way it touches the bay

Just before sunset,

The colors starting to change

To sherbert tones of raspberry and orange


Three birds flew past in formation

A tattered flag to the left

Waving in the breeze

Their wings beating as one

I followed them as far as sight could go


Not long after, over the building,  

One of the three came flying back

Its wings beating harder,

Gliding an instant, waiting an instant,

Course-correcting and beating west

towards Candlestick, the hills, and the open ocean  



It was going somewhere, I knew

It was not aimless, but

It’s harder on your own

Its whole being in motion  



The clouds moved across the sky

The wind blew through ceaselessly

Up the bay, San Francisco and Oakland  

Swathed in pink cotton candy

As the city lights start to take effect



Break is almost over

My heart quietly beats

Waits a moment, changes course

Goes on alone

If you’re traveling “generally in the mines”,  

The state of Minas Gerais, that is:

-inho and -inha at the end of the word

Makes it diminutive

-inhos and -inhas if there’s more than one.  

And sometimes -zinha and -zinho

But I won’t get into the  

Wherefores and whys

Of adding the zed.



My wife, nee girlfriend, taught me this:  

Everything is made smaller here

Lest we offend or frighten.

If you want someone to stop by the house

For just a little while, you suggest a

Passadinha em  casa for

A cafézinho, literally

A tiny coffee, probably several.



Little João, Johnny, is Joãozinho

Little Maurice, Mauricinho, is a *******

A sobriquet insulting to the rich and useless.

You can have a cervejinha,

But while it may be small,

I guarantee it won’t be just one;

The diminutive here

Is only a manner of speaking.



Amorzinho means my little love,

My dearest one.

A bundinha  

Is a cute little ***.

Garfinho is a salad fork

Obviously, there are a lot of nuances

You'll need to work out.



To make things bigger add an -ão

And don’t worry how to pronounce it for now

(But it rhymes with “now,” kind of.)

So, a big piece of bread is a pãozão;

Pãozinho is more bite size.

A chunk is a pedação

A nibble is a pedacinho

A  Yorkie is a cachorrinho

While a Great Dane is a cachorrão,  

And also a guy who can’t keep it in his pants.



Tchauzinho is a little goodbye  

Not so big, like,

I’ll see you soon.

Rápido means fast

Rapidinho means really fast

Rapidão, too.  

Beijo is a kiss

Beijinho is a little kiss, a peck

Beijão is big kiss,

Not a French kiss;

It expresses affection,

Not necessarily love.



Tiozão is not a big uncle,

(Or maybe it could be?)

But can be a terrific uncle

Or a guy who tells dad jokes

Or a benefactor or a boomer

Or maybe a sugar daddy.

In language as in life,

Context is everything.

When I arrived in Brazil  

There were signs that said I was meant to be

Here

An immense feeling of deja vu in Mangabeiras Park

Tangled vines I had seen in my dreams

And other portents long forgotten



Now I understand those dreams were

Landing beacons

Welcoming me to familiar foreign grounds

A long-lost wanderer

In strange armor overgrown

Barely recognizable



They beckoned me to land



I consulted my charts  

They declared hardships

But hinted at wonders

So I stayed, I stayed, I stayed



Time has since stripped away my armor



No longer wandering,  

I am finally home