We Went Twice Round the City by Mistake

Though I'd been there before, knew how the streets
cut each other, how the city quartered, where
I'd like to be - in that tiny garden behind a cafe
hung with plants, dripping green and spots of water
in the cool shade - I let you decide. You wore the hat.
You had the map - a tiny pop up thing you bought
in the airport. You'd insisted carry on luggage only
- we couldn't dwell by the carousel
like everyone - we walked free straight through
the tall rotating doors into unfamiliar heat.
We pass the zoo, the elephant, the bear.
The clamour of children at the gate in caps,
eating icecreams, shouting in a language
we don't understand. We walk and walk.
You, half a pace ahead holding the pop up map
like a divining rod in front of you.
I don't ask where you're taking us. The heat
takes all my will. I follow, noting blankly names
of streets. I don't know
that in an hour we'll pass the zoo again
that it will make me want to cry.