San Antonio on My Birthday by Ann Howells

From seven stories up:
boats seem fantasy floats in a Rose Parade,
bloom with tourists in flowered shirts.
And down here, on the riverwalk,
riffs of mariachi music –
trumpet, guitarron, violin – carry
on intermittent breezes.
But I am swaddled in the music
of language: Spanish, Spanglish, English,
even tourists rolling their Rs.
I buy a small clay pot –
three legs and head of a goat – 
two Dia de los Muertes figures –
bull and bullfighter.
Whiffs of grilled fajitas, chiles,
and sweet cinnamon scent of sopapillas
draw me into a tiny restaurant –
salty-lime taste of a margarita
makes me linger, relax,
watch tourists and natives mingle,
lost in the music of a language
I cannot even speak.